


A Song of Ice and Fire

by Iwovepizza



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Digital Art, Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Essentially a medieval AU that just so happens to have elements/story arcs of Game of Thrones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Ultra Slow Burn, War and Conquest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwovepizza/pseuds/Iwovepizza
Summary: **You don't need to have watched Game of Thrones to understand**A war is brewing. The wind whispers of conquest, the trees hush warnings of slaughter.Gran Gran always said that a war with the firebenders meant a deadly dance with dragons, but now the dragons are dead and all they've left behind is an army with a thirst for blood and a firelord who'll stop at nothing to bring the world to its knees.Marrying Prince Zuko is the first sacrifice Sokka makes for his family, and it won't be the last.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 534
Kudos: 610





	1. A Game of Thrones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Animal Death, Mentions of Genocide

**I.**

**A GAME OF THRONES**

_“Fire and blood.”_

The old saying of House Targaryen.

It was a warning. A promise.

When the nights grew cold and the supper fires danced and crackled, people would whisper of ruthless warriors who could summon fire from nothing, who rode on the backs of gigantic dragons and wore armor of gold and crimson like a scorching sunset.

They whispered of a merciless conquest in centuries past, of cities leveled and powerful families that had been around for ages uprooted and butchered like cattle: an effort to unite all of the Houses under the rule of a single emperor. The march of the Targaryen armies could make the earth tremble and the forests cower, and left in their wake was nothing but ashes and sorrow and death.

The Avatar had been the only one able to stop them, but by that point it’d been too late.

 _“Fire and blood”_ they’d promised.

And fire and blood were what the world had received.

All of the airbenders had been slaughtered. Thousands of people—soldiers and civilians alike—lay rotting face down in the fields and in the charred husks of villages. Entire swaths of forests and farmland had been burned to cinders, countless children had found themselves orphaned, and whole cultures had been wiped from existence. The aftershocks of the war—the starvation, the shell shock, the smoke inhalation—killed almost as many people as those who’d died by the sword.

Perhaps the world would’ve been better off if the Avatar had turned the Targaryens’ promise back onto them, had lined up every man, woman, and child who bore the accursed name and obliterated them in quick, ruthless succession.

But the Avatar had been content with only the death of the firelord and an oath to never pursue conquest again, and the Targaryens had emerged from the ordeal battered but not broken, claiming that they’d renounced the actions of their past ruler. Had they not been offering a very tradeable resource that the world had been struggling without—metal—perhaps the other Houses wouldn’t’ve forgiven them as easily as they did.

The South Pole remembered, though.

The South wasn’t so quick to exonerate the Targaryens just because they condemned the atrocities and genocide inflicted by their predecessors. To them, it was only a matter of time before the Targaryens tried to regain their former glory, and now—centuries later—there was no Avatar to stop them.

With a reputation like that, it was no wonder why Sokka felt uneasy when he saw Targaryen banners being hoisted up alongside those of his own family. 

He’d been sneaking into the Weirwood grove when he noticed them, dread pooling in his stomach as the guards on the battlements unfurled gigantic black cloths emblazoned with a red, three-headed dragon. The dragon seemed a lot more intimidating compared to the snarling dire wolf sigil of House Stark that Sokka wore proudly at his breast, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it made his home seem like it’d been conquered rather than accepting guests on a diplomatic mission.

A sharp bark from behind him made Sokka jump, and he whirled around to find Yue trotting over with her tail held high and a rabbit clamped in the vice of her jaws. The blood stood out starkly against her white fur, and though the rabbit was badly mangled, it was still alive and struggling weakly.

“Spirits, Yue, I told you to leave it alone!” Sokka cried as the dire wolf dropped the rabbit at his feet and sat back proudly. He picked the poor creature up by what little fur was left on its scruff, frowning at its wail of agony, and snapped its neck to end its suffering. “You’ve gotta learn how to kill things more cleanly. Jet doesn’t have a problem doing it, and he’s half your size.”

Yue huffed at the mention of her littermate but didn’t seem guilty at all, licking the blood off her chops as it dribbled from her chin and turned to crimson frost in the bitter South Pole cold.

“Ugh, come on, let’s go.” Sokka tucked the rabbit into his rucksack and hoped it wouldn’t stain too badly. “I’m tired of looking at those banners.”

His father would be furious with him for sneaking off into the Weirwood grove again—he’d skipped all of his lessons this week in favor of going for a walk here, and today would be no different (What was he missing again? Art of ancient Ba Sing Se? Cooking and culture of House Beifong?)—but the desperation to clear his head overpowered his fear of Lord Hakoda Stark’s wrath.

The Weirwood grove was beautiful as always.

After all, in a land that consisted primarily of barren tundra and jagged mountains, a swath of snowy woods was an oasis. The South Pole offered nothing but weak, taciturn sunlight and a biting wind that never rested, and yet all of the trees in the grove were broad and ancient, with bloodred leaves that stood out starkly against the whitewashed landscape. The bark itself was the color of freshly fallen snow, looping and knotting and swirling in a way that made it look like thousands of eyes were watching as he passed.

Yue prowled at his side like the model walking buddy that she was, and provided fulfilling companionship without the annoying stream of conversation that went along with actual people—a breath of fresh air from Katara’s nagging, his father’s scolding, and his advisors’ groveling. Occasionally, the dire wolf wandered off the path to sniff suspicious rocks or chase back to squirrels, but she always bounded back to Sokka like a furry boomerang. It was sometimes difficult to keep track of her with how well she blended into the surroundings, save for the rabbit’s blood staining her muzzle, and her tread was deathly silent against the snow.

A dissonant symphony of birdsong filled the air with a stream of friendly chatter, and the underbrush rustled as critters scampered to and fro among the roots. And yet…despite how Sokka could definitely _hear_ all of these animals going about their lives, the few glimpses of movement he caught out of the corner of his eye weren’t nearly as many as the sounds of life made it out to be.

Some people were frightened by this. They whispered that the Weirwood grove was more like a graveyard than anything else—humming with life that no one could see—but unlike them, Sokka had an unhealthy love for the thrill of a good mystery.

“Hey, look!” Sokka said with a grin, pointing to a familiar raven that pecked at the path ahead. “Our old friend!”

As usual, Yue raced past Sokka to pounce on it, and—like always—her claws couldn’t even graze the bird’s glossy black feathers before it flickered and was gone, a raspy croak lingering in the air where it’d once been. Yue harrumphed, looking around in vain for where it could’ve gone, before shaking her head and scampering back over to Sokka, who only laughed and stooped down to give her a scratch behind the ears.

“What did you expect, furbrain? You fall for it every time.”

That raven was _always_ at that same spot every time Sokka visited the Weirwood grove, and every time it was never really there. And neither were the shadows that stretched long and ghastly across the ground, vaguely humanoid and belonging to no one. Neither were the whispers resounding through the trees, the remains of languages that had long since gone extinct.

It was exactly why the Weirwood grove seemed to have more things living in it than there actually was; this place was a spirit forest made of memories, brimming with the echoes of people and things that’d walked among the trees throughout the centuries.

Sometimes, Sokka caught glimpses of people he knew or heard snippets of familiar voices drifting on the wind—even coming across traces of himself and Yue from time to time.

But the wonder of those echoes was _nothing_ compared to the wonder of encountering unfamiliar faces who flew strange banners and spoke in tongues Sokka didn’t recognize; the secrets of long ago unfurled within this grove like a blossoming flower, people who’d been dead for centuries and creatures that had long since disappeared rising from the grave in awe-inspiring glory.

A screeching roar made the trees shake and the ground tremble underfoot, and Sokka turned his head to the sky calmly to watch the gigantic, flickering body of a dragon glide over his head. It was the color of ash and covered from head to toe with interlocking scales and leathery skin, and although dragons had died off centuries ago, Sokka couldn’t help the way his mouth parted in awe.

The Weirwood grove conjured dragons often; it was a memory that it kept harping on, a remnant of the Targaryen conquest.

As they ventured deeper into the trees, the air seemed to get warmer around them. Not enough to melt the snow that crunched persistently beneath Sokka’s boots, but enough that he wasn’t shivering anymore.

“Would there be flowers here if we weren’t in the South Pole?” Sokka mused aloud to Yue, who seemed preoccupied with a comically large stick that she’d found. “Man, I could go for some flowers. All the imported ones freeze up and die in, like, a day.”

Well, _almost_ all of them; some had instead met their demise due to a clumsy and forgetful owner, and more than once had perished at the hands of a dire wolf with the munchies. Sokka had since accepted the fact that he was doomed for botanical failure at every turn.

A set of footprints appeared in the snow next to him, walking at his side for a few yards like an invisible companion before veering off the trail. Yue abandoned her stick to follow them but returned empty-handed, and when Sokka glanced over his shoulder, the footprints were no longer there.

“Someone’s grumpy today. That’s the first time in two weeks it’s sent me a memory meant to get me lost. Maybe it was because I was talking about the dying plants?”

The Weirwood grove had a nasty habit of playing tricks on anyone it didn’t like.

Bato—the current captain of the guard—had carved his name into one of the trees as a kid and to this day couldn’t put a toe within the grove’s boundaries without something bad happening, and Katara had once had her necklace stolen before someone found it at the edge of the grove a week later. There even used to be a sect of monks who’d tried to make their home in the grove so they could worship and give offerings to the spirits, but the grove had gotten so irritated by their presence that the trees had literally snatched them up and chucked them out one by one.

It had taken a really long time for Sokka to be able to traverse the Weirwood grove as he did now.

When he’d first stepped foot inside when he was a boy, the spirits hadn’t been particularly fond of him; he’d been chased by spectral bears, had his hair yanked around by a faceless wind, and had gotten so lost he’d had to wander for hours in the freezing cold before finding his way home. But he’d kept coming back on the daily over the years, kept seeking solace in the fantastical sights and sounds among the ancient trees, and eventually the grove had grudgingly accepted him as a friend.

Yue yipped excitedly and raced over to a familiar rock outcropping, leaping up onto it as her tail propelled back and forth at a million miles an hour.

“Do you even still remember this place, or are you just jumping onto it out of habit now?” Sokka chuckled, reaching up to scratch behind her ears. “When I found you and Jet here, I could pick both of you up in my arms like little babies, no sweat.”

Yue barked, her hindquarters wriggling as if she were preparing to jump on Sokka to reenact their first meeting, and he had to plant his hands on her chest to prevent her from clambering all over him. Three years and 135 pounds later, Yue was definitely not a puppy anymore.

“This is a close checkpoint; let’s keep moving. Supper’s gonna be soon, and I want to get to the center of the grove before—hey, don’t give me that attitude! I’m going!”

The dire wolf howled and barked at Sokka’s back in hopes it’d convince him to head home before reluctantly following with a snarl. She was totally capable of finding her way back to the kingdom stronghold—established by Sokka’s ancestors and lovingly christened ‘Winterfell’—all by herself, but she hated being left out.

After a short uphill struggle and a jump across a babbling brook, he and Yue rounded a bend and finally reached their destination; the heart of the Weirwood grove. As far as Sokka knew, he was the only person currently alive that the grove allowed to come to this vulnerable place, for it was here that it housed the source of all its life and power; a single Weirwood tree flourishing in a clearing beside a glasslike pond.

Though the place was called the “Weirwood grove,” this tree was the only true Weirwood.

It had the shape of a beech tree, stout and multi-trunked, but with bark the color of ivory and leaves that looked like they’d been kissed by fire, just like the surrounding forest. There was a face in the center trunk whose eyes wept red sap, and though it looked like it’d been carved there by some traveler long ago, Sokka knew better than to believe so.

Sokka had no idea how the Weirwood had gotten to the South Pole in the first place, but he knew that if it were to die, the whole grove, and all of its magic, would die along with it. As far as he knew, it was one of the last; the northern waterbender Houses had a Weirwood, but a majority of the rest had been cut down by those who worshipped new spirits and cared little for the old.

“Don’t get yourself into trouble,” Sokka ordered Yue, who only offered a dismissive flick of her tail before she ventured off into the trees.

Sokka would’ve preferred it if his dire wolf stayed with him as a safety measure, but dire wolves were more attuned to the spirit world than humans were, and the Weirwood tree was way too overwhelming for her to even get _near_ it.

It made Sokka wonder if he was actually alone; there was no one else in the clearing as far as he could see, but the distorted, wordless whispers that resonated through the trees told him otherwise. A shadow flicked past out of the corner of Sokka’s eye, but he knew better than to turn toward it—he was either going to see nothing or see something he’d rather forget.

He took a few more hesitant steps into the clearing, his heart fluttering against his neck and his entire body strung taught.

Sokka wasn’t a fool.

He’d seen the grinning skulls and protruding ribs scattered among the trees—very much human and very much not a mirror into the past. The Weirwood wasn’t a merciful entity, and incurring its wrath this close to its heart could very well assure that his skeleton joined those of the ones who’d come before him.

Yue hadn’t howled a warning yet—he was safe. For now.

Sokka exhaled raggedly to steel his nerves, realizing his breath no longer steamed in the air.

“Okay…I’m approaching,” Sokka announced to the empty-but-not-quite clearing. “I uh…hope that’s okay with you.”

He picked his way around the pond, which was unfrozen save for a touch of frost clinging to the edges, and didn’t bother to try to peer into its mirrorlike surface. He knew his reflection wouldn’t be looking back at him. It was a bummer, since Sokka _really_ wished that he could use to help tidy himself up; the hem of his fur cloak was muddy from dragging on the floor all week and getting stepped on, and the wind had pulled a few strands loose from his wolf tail.

_The perfect look for chatting with a cosmic entity that could kill you if it felt like it,_ Sokka thought with a groan.

A bark came from his left, and he turned to find Yue sitting a distance past the tree line like a ghostly sentinel, her ears pricked and her head on a swivel. He held her icy blue gaze for a few moments, just to make sure she was actually Yue and not a memory, and was relieved when she didn’t vanish.

The dire wolf’s presence was what gave him the courage to finally approach the Weirwood, kneeling down before it, removing his glove, and placing his hand on its trunk in greeting. He could feel the power that hummed beneath his fingertips like a pulsing heartbeat.

“Uh…here’s a rabbit that Yue caught,” Sokka murmured, reaching into his rucksack and taking out the limp body of the animal, which still had threads of its body heat clinging to it. “I know it might be rude to give you an animal that was caught in your grove, but the cooks don’t take meat that’s from here and I didn’t want its life to go to waste…”

He placed the lifeless rabbit among the snarl of roots, hoping it would provide nutrients for the Weirwood and could live on like that.

But was there even dirt under all this snow? The Weirwood survived without soil, without rain, burgeoning in an icy wilderness.

Just in case the Weirwood wouldn’t accept the rabbit, Sokka shuffled the snow around until he found his hidden cache, tucked away beneath some rocks. Inside was a holder with some incense, a few candles, and a couple of glass bowls for offerings, and Sokka decided to light two incense sticks—lavender, the Weirwood’s favorite. The candles would’ve been easier, but he’d found out the hard way that the Weirwood hated open fire.

“Hey. How are you?” Sokka asked, placing his hand back on the trunk. “I hope you’re doing well.”

The trails of smoke from the incense looked like grey ribbons winding through the air, and it had started to snow lightly, flakes getting caught in Sokka’s cloak and resting gently on his eyelashes.

“Sorry I’ve been coming so frequently these past few days. I know you like time for yourself, but…I’ve had a lot on my mind and taking walks helps. There’s an important event coming up that I’m not really excited for.”

He glanced up at Yue, but she showed no sign of approaching danger. The Weirwood had accepted his company.

“My father…he’s been making my lessons a bit more vigorous. I’m turning eighteen in a month, and he’s trying to prepare me to become the new Lord of Winterfell for when he…you know.”

It felt kind of silly to sit there talking to a tree, but he knew that the Weirwood was listening. He knew by the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing straight up and by the way the entire world seemed to be leaning in to hear.

“It’s coming all at once. I should’ve started this training earlier, but since my mom died…it just never came up. Now I’m a man and I’m still having trouble remembering which Houses consist of which kind of bender, which form of greeting I should use based solely on titles, and how to eat with the right kind of cutlery!”

Sokka shook his head with a sigh. “Did you know that Lao Beifong has _twenty-six_ titles? And that they _all_ have to be recited _in a specific order_ every time he makes an entrance somewhere? It seems like one big joke!”

The Weirwood probably didn’t want to know about all of this, but Sokka had a habit of rambling to it; it was the only one who listened without judgement.

“In a few days Winterfell is hosting a diplomatic meeting, and I’m going to be expected to help my father with all of the negotiations. It’s my first real test. I’ve…I’ve never met a fireben—a _northern_ House before, and—”

Fuck, he’d slipped up.

The garbled voices echoing in the trees grew louder, sounding like gossipers spreading speculation, and a tear of sap trickled out one of the Weirwood’s eyes. Though it wasn’t mad, it was clear that it wanted an explanation. Sokka’s eyes traveled up the bough of the Weirwood to rest on a single black scorch mark, the only thing marring the tree’s white pristineness.

“I uh…I don’t really know how to explain this…” Sokka trailed off, wondering if Yue would be enough to protect him from the grove’s wrath. “But…um…”

He thought about what would happen if he died in here.

None of his family members were close enough to the Weirwood to venture into the center of the grove. His body might not be discovered for centuries, unless the grove was kind enough to dump it at the outskirts like it’d done with Katara’s necklace. With no body to be found, his family might not even know he was dead.

Would they assume he’d taken off to the North, hopping on the next boat so he could avoid his destiny of becoming the next Lord of Winterfell? Would they disown him, plunge his name into disgrace, or would they try to search for him?

Sokka didn’t really want to think about it.

“I…err…hate to be the bringer of bad news, so _please, please_ don’t get mad and shoot the messenger, but…” He pursed his lips. “It’s…it’s the Targaryens that are coming. For the meeting.”

Yue barked in warning, her tail raised and her fur bristling.

There wasn’t an earthquake and no wild spirit beasts came out to attack him, but the air had grown ten degrees colder. Sokka pulled his fur cloak more tightly around himself with a shiver.

“I promise it’s not to fight or anything. Being honest, I’m not really sure what we’re going to be talking about—probably trade agreements or something—but…I know you’ve still got a bone to pick with them.”

Yue growled, the sound reverberating above the increasingly loud whispers, and Sokka really hoped he was making the right decision by relaying this information to the Weirwood.

“It’s been hundreds and hundreds of years since the Targaryen conquest, but it…it still feels wrong to be breaking bread with them. They’ve been a good trading partner, sure, but the South remembers. You remember.”

Sokka jumped when he heard a spine-tingling roar rip through the grove, another cry of a dragon, and he gulped as its sputtering shadow fell over him and disappeared over the treetops.

“I just…I don’t understand how my father could trust them. The last time a Targaryen stepped foot in Winterfell, they destroyed it with dragon fire and tried to kill this whole grove! Had it not been for the Avatar—”

The ground rumbled in warning. The Weirwood didn’t like it when Sokka used terms that had rubbed off from the northern Houses.

“Sorry. Had it not been for the _Three-Eyed Raven_ , all of us would be gone. My House would be extinct and you would’ve been turned into a nice cooking bonfire for the Targaryens’ steaks…no offense.” Sokka ran his hand through his hair, tugging on his wolf tail as he searched for words. “I don’t know. I just have a really bad feeling. If the Targaryens attack again, we don’t have the Av—the Three-Eyed Raven to swoop in and protect us anymore.”

He looked back to the scorch mark, a battle scar.

“I know I keep apologizing for my great-great…I don’t even know how many ‘greats’…grandparents, but…I really wish House Stark could’ve protected you better. We haven’t failed a second time so far, but it might happen now, so…so I hope you know that whatever happens, we tried our hardest. I’d lay down my life for you.”

A gentle wind blew through the trees, making the leaves rustle and hiss like a stream trickling through stones, and Sokka bowed his head with a smile. He would’ve said something more, but that’s when the ten-minute warning horn resounded from Winterfell like the low howl of a wolf, alerting all of the hunters and wanderers to start heading back for supper.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go,” Sokka apologized, removing his hand from the Weirwood and leaping to his feet. “Think you could show me the quick way out?”

Before he could finish the sentence, he heard a squawk come from behind him and turned to find a huge black raven perched on a branch at the edge of the clearing, its feathers like a smudge of ink on a pristine white canvas, and it flicked its head in a “Let’s go” gesture.

Sokka bowed to the Weirwood before racing after the raven with Yue hot on his heels. Chasing the raven shortened Sokka’s long journey down to a handful of minutes, and before he knew it, the raven was disappearing in a cloud of smoke and he and Yue were bursting through the trees into the snowy wastes of the South Pole.

The wind had a stronger bite here, and Sokka wished he’d brought his horse along as he trudged back to Winterfell in ankle-deep snow, with Yue prancing around by his side and taking sick delight in watching her master struggle.

“Careful showing off that thick pelt of yours. I just might have to flay it off you and wear it myself,” Sokka growled, though his threat only received a mildly irritated stare in return. 

By the time the two of them reached the gates of Winterfell, Sokka’s cheeks were flushed bright red, and he had so much snow on him he could’ve been mistaken for a polar bear dog.

The walls of the stronghold were made of ice and as high as ten war horses stacked on top of each other, manned by archers who patrolled the battlements. There was only one way in and one way out: a set of gigantic metal doors emblazoned with House Stark’s dire wolf sigil. Come to think of it…hadn’t those doors been imported from the metalworkers of House Targaryen?

“Welcome back, m’lord!” one of the guards called down to him, and Sokka smiled as best as he could with chattering teeth. “Lord Hakoda has been searching for you all day!”

“Shit,” Sokka mumbled under his breath. Louder, he said, “Has supper been served yet?”

“If you run, you might be able to sit down right as it comes out.”

The doors groaned as they swung open, propelled by small chambers of water that the guards could bend inside the metal, and Sokka could only offer them a brisk wave of thanks before booking it to the dining hall.

Unlike the barrier that surrounded it, the rest of Winterfell wasn’t made of ice; the first Starks had mostly lived in igloos and buildings that could be created without a source of wood, but over the years—with the help of trade with earthbender Houses—the snowy homes had slowly given way to towering structures of wood and stone.

Winterfell could be an intimidating, taciturn-looking place on its own. Its architecture kind of reminded Sokka of a prison, and the snarling wolf banners of House Stark that were draped over everything didn’t look the least bit friendly.

But the life that flourished within was what made it truly feel like home.

Despite how the higher-ups were just sitting down for dinner, the rest of Winterfell was full to bursting with throngs of people going about their evening. Apprentices hurried by with armfuls of kindling and huge buckets of steaming, sloshing water, while bundled-up children chased each other around in the snow. Wagons rattled past brimming with food, horses whinnied to one another and pawed at the ground, and the merchants who’d traveled to the stronghold for the day bade their companions farewell as they set off back to their villages.

“Lord Stark!” a voice cried as he raced past a band of kids roughhousing, and he skidded to a stop as a wild-haired boy tumbled over to him and grabbed a hold of his trousers. “Will you play war with us again? You haven’t hung out in forever!”

“Sorry, I’ve been a bit busy lately. Maybe some other time,” Sokka replied as sweetly as he could, somehow managing to extricate the boy’s iron grip from his pants and shooing him away.

He’d only just started picking up speed again when he was stopped by another shrill, “Lord Stark!”

“Listen, I’m kind of in a hurry—”

“I just wanted to thank you for helping my son nail shoes onto his pony,” the woman said sweetly, hefting the basketful of grain she was carrying. “He’d never done it before and the farrier was busy, and it was so kind of you to step up for the job—”

“It was no problem happy to help!” Sokka said quickly as he scooted by her as politely as he could.

But before he could take off again, a man wearing a dyed-blue fur cloak planted himself in Sokka’s path with a booming, “Lord Stark!”

He was halfway through some pre-rehearsed spiel about why Sokka would be a good fit for his daughter when Yue leapt up in his face, barking wildly.

The man staggered back, nearly tripping over his own feet and tumbling into the snow, and that gave Sokka just enough of an opening to slip past and make a break for it. He only later realized that he should’ve apologized, but he was too busy thinking about his father’s rage than the range of some random man he’d just so happened to stumble into.

_Good spirits, I’m as good as dead,_ Sokka thought as he finally reached the dining hall, praying he looked at least slightly put together as he barged through the doors.

Everyone turned to look at him.

The dining hall was large enough to fit about four dozen people, but small enough that all of their bodies packed together made it stifling. It didn’t help that the fireplaces were roaring and steaming hot dinners had already been served.

Two tables that could seat twenty-four people each stretched across the room on either side of the door, and perpendicular to those was a raised dais that supported the table for the Starks.

Seated at that table were Sokka’s father and sister, and their combined glares made Sokka want to melt into a puddle on the floor and disappear. Even Jet, lying obediently beneath the table at Katara’s feet, seemed to be giving him the stink eye.

“Uh…sorry I’m late,” Sokka said sheepishly and bowed his head as he made the walk of shame over to the empty seat next to his father.

Conversation resumed for the most part once Sokka had sat down, with Yue curling up next to his chair, but Sokka could see the curious glances that the other diners were stealing his way.

His father gave him a withering look out of the corner of his eye.

Hakoda Stark wasn’t the biggest or most muscular man in Winterfell, but he was certainly the most intimidating. His blue eyes were sharper than shards of ice, his hair pulled back and decorated with colorful beads, and he was built like a swimmer—all lean muscle and sharp edges. He’d won a wife at eighteen and a war at twenty-six, and his intelligence and honor commanded great respect among all of the other Houses.

There was a jagged scar at his left temple that served as a grisly reminder of the five-year scuffle with neighboring waterbender House Greyjoy, which had lasted for a huge portion of Sokka’s childhood, and Sokka had heard stories—from Bato, mostly—of the many other wounds Hakoda had hidden away beneath his furs. But Sokka knew the biggest scar the Greyjoys had left behind wasn’t visible to the naked eye, and all of the Starks had to bear it together; Lady Kya Stark, Hakoda’s wife and Sokka and Katara’s mother, had been killed in a Greyjoy raid during the war.

“I can’t believe you,” Hakoda finally growled. He didn’t look up, pretending to be focused on his food as to not draw attention from the other people eating, and Sokka wilted at the bite in his father’s voice. If they weren’t in public, he’d for sure be getting screamed at. “This is the eighth time you’ve skipped classes this week, and perhaps the…I don’t even know how many times you’ve visited the Weirwood grove. It ends now.”

Sokka didn’t say anything, taking a halfhearted bite of his chicken leg and hoping his father would drop it if he kept silent.

But Hakoda persisted, “You know exactly what you’re doing when you go to the Weirwood grove. It’s the only place where we can’t follow.”

“You can go into the Weirwood grove. It doesn’t hate you.”

“Perhaps, but it hates Bato, who’s the one I have to send after you because I have more important things to do than chase down my son who’s having a temper tantrum.”

“It’s not a temper tantrum,” Sokka mumbled.

He felt Yue’s nosing at his leg. She might’ve meant to comfort, but she also might’ve been trying to be sappy to increase her chances of snagging some of Sokka’s chicken.

“It sounds like one to me,” Katara butt in, nosy as always. “Your lessons are super important! How will you know how to act when the Targaryens come?”

“I don’t think our entire diplomatic arrangement will be jeopardized by me not knowing each and every vassal House that’s sworn allegiance to the Targaryens. What are they gonna do, suddenly stop everything and decide to give me a pop quiz?”

“Maybe you won’t need to know all of their vassals, but you’ll need to know all of their customs, all of their taboos,” Hakoda pointed out. “Firebender Houses are very strict. Very proper. Much different from us. For one thing, they would look down upon you talking with your mouth full.”

Sokka would’ve snapped back at him, but he had to finish chewing and swallowing first as not to prove his point, and by the time he was done with that he’d lost the courage.

“Maybe I’m just not fit to be Lord of Winterfell.” His face twisted, and he stabbed one of his baked potatoes with his knife. “If you think you know so much, Katara, why don’t _you_ go to the meetings. We can switch—I’ll focus on learning how to be the captain of the guard, and you can work on being the next Lady of Winterfell.”

“Even though I’d _most definitely_ make a better leader of Winterfell then you would, I’m actually quite satisfied with my destined profession.”

“That makes one of us,” Sokka snarled into his food before he could stop himself, and received a kick under the table from his father for the trouble.

“You’re grounded. I forbid you from leaving Winterfell until you catch up on all your lessons and ace all of your diplomatic exams.”

“Hey—!”

“Meet me in the war room after dinner. I have something important to discuss with you about the Targaryens…and the role you must play when they arrive.”

“But—"

And that’s when some snotty official came sauntering up to the table to engage in dry conversation with Hakoda, effectively squashing any of Sokka’s chances to protest.

The delectable food felt like ashes in his mouth.

He was tempted to just go running back to the Weirwood after dinner was over, but he’d already disrespected his father enough…and he also didn’t think the Weirwood would appreciate being pestered again after the news about the Targaryens.

So, after everyone had left, Yue and Jet had gone out on their afternoon romp, and the servants were clearing the plates and leftovers, Sokka rose from his seat and shuffled out of the dining hall and toward the heart of Winterfell. 

The Targaryen and Stark banners snapped and shivered in the wind overhead, and Sokka couldn’t bear to look at them.

_The world would be better off if all the Houses in the world just disappeared,_ he thought bitterly. _Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy—what does it matter? Why does everything always have to be a power struggle?_

The crowds were thinning out as the hush of the evening settled over the South Pole and the stars emerged in all of their glittering glory, but now that Sokka wasn’t able to blend in with everyone milling about, he caught the attention of way more people.

“Good evening, Lord Stark,” the passerby murmured, stopping whatever they were doing to bow and curtsy to him.

Some nobles got a thrill from stuff like that, but Sokka just found it awkward as he inclined his head in acknowledgement to every single person like some sort of wonky bobblehead.

Hakoda was waiting for him in the war room, sitting at the head of a long table strewn with maps and scrolls, and Sokka was surprised to find Bato sitting beside him. Bato had his feet propped up on the table and had a bronze goblet of wine determinedly clutched in one fist.

A bad feeling made the hair on the back of Sokka’s neck prickle—getting a talk from both the Lord of Winterfell and the captain of the guard was no small matter, and he hunched his shoulders as he took a seat on the other side of his father.

“Care for some wine?” Bato asked without looking up.

“No thank you,” Sokka said.

It was colder in here than all of the other rooms in Winterfell—the only room without a fireplace as to make sure no one could listen in through the chimney. The walls were made entirely of cobblestone, and the lack of windows made the torchlight cast ghastly shadows across anything and everyone.

“So…” Sokka trailed off at the heavy, awkward silence that hung between all of them. “You wanted to talk to me about the upcoming meeting? You know, with the Targaryens?”

“Yes, the Targaryens, who else?” Hakoda said sarcastically, and the humor made Sokka let out a breath of relief; at least he knew his father wasn’t going to chew him out. “How are the banners looking?”

“They’re fine.”

“You make it sound like you don’t think so.”

“I don’t know. It’s just…kind of weird seeing the Stark and Targaryen banners flying in solidarity instead of on the opposite sides of a battlefield.”

“It’s not like it’s some sort of miracle,” Bato huffed, taking another swig of wine. Sokka had seen the man down three cups at dinner, and his cheeks were starting to get rosy. “We haven’t fought the Targaryens in centuries.”

Bato wasn’t technically a Stark, but he and the rest of House Mormont were such close allies that he was basically family; the Mormonts had stood with the Starks all those years ago against the Targaryen conquest, and had fought valiantly by their sides.

“Yeah, and the last time they did, they destroyed Winterfell with dragon fire and nearly burnt down the Weirwood grove!”

“Firelord Ozai is not like his ancestors,” Hakoda reminded him, though there was a dissonant note in his voice that made all of the hairs on the back of Sokka’s neck stand straight up. “If he was anything like Sozin the Conqueror, wouldn’t you think the world would know by now?”

“But Sozin the Conqueror massacred so many innocent people— _our people_ —in cold blood! How could a House possibly come back from something like that? It’s because of them that there aren’t any airbenders left!”

“The Targaryens are an honorable House.” The vehemence in Hakoda’s words made Sokka startle, and he sat up straighter in his seat. “They may have a certain…reputation…but they’ve changed. Remember ambassador Iroh Targaryen? You seemed to get along with him.”

“That’s true, but Iroh’s told me, like, a hundred times that he’s nothing like his brother.”

“Just because they’re different doesn’t mean they’re opposites, Sokka. I’m expecting you to treat Ozai and all of the other guests he brings as respectfully as you treat ambassador Iroh.”

“But—”

“You will be representing House Stark just as much as I. You must be polite, mild-mannered, clever, and proper. You’re the future Lord of Winterfell, and the Targaryens will be trying to figure out if you’re someone they can take advantage of. Do not dishonor me. Do not dishonor House Stark.”

“I…I won’t,” Sokka murmured. “Let’s just hope the firelord doesn’t have any dragons up his sleeve.”

Hakoda chuckled, shaking his head. “No dragons.”

“That’s good. Now we only have to worry about the firebending.”

“No one will be firebending, unless for entertainment.”

There was an unmistakable _“I hope”_ that hung in the air.

“Entertainment? Why would we need entertainment for diplomatic meetings?”

“The Targaryens are going to be here for a month. They’re already not going to be happy about the weather and the culture shock, so we might as well keep them occupied in the meantime.”

Hakoda’s eyes went wide the moment the words were out of his mouth, as if he’d slipped up and hadn’t meant to disclose such information.

“A month?!” Sokka cried. “I thought it was just going to be a few days! What kind of diplomatic meeting takes a whole _month?!_ ”

Hakoda’s face fell, his whole body going rigid as he exchanged a knowing look with Bato. Sokka felt dread trickling down his spine like a stream of cold water, and he watched as his father’s eyes screwed shut.

Hakoda took in a wavering breath and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Bato, perhaps more than a little tipsy, jumped in for him, “A wedding. A wedding takes a month.”

He said it like a confession that he’d long since been resigned to, and Sokka suddenly realized why the commander of the guard was drinking so heavily.

Sokka swayed in his chair, needing to steady himself on the table as the world spun around him like a hurricane. Beneath his hand was a letter he hadn’t recognized before, the bottom stamped with the Targaryen seal. It didn’t take long to find the word “wedding” among the paragraphs as he skimmed it.

“What?” Sokka rasped. He didn’t think he could speak louder if he tried.

“Firelord Ozai has offered his son Zuko in order to solidify an alliance,” Hakoda explained solemnly. “I’m not the fool who will plunge this House into a centuries-long war for refusing a gift from the Targaryens.”

“But why the hell do we need an alliance?!” Sokka roared, leaping to his feet as his hands balled into fists. He wanted to punch someone, preferably his father. “We aren’t at war!”

“We will be if we don’t accept this arrangement,” Bato mumbled. “Fucking Targaryens and their fucking conquest.”

“What do you mean?” Sokka felt like his whole body was being turned to stone, and could barely move his arms to rest his hands on the table. When neither Bato nor his father replied, Sokka roared, “ _What the hell do you mean?!”_

Hakoda pursed his lips grimly before motioning to Bato, who scowled before tossing a scroll Sokka’s way, clearly disgusted by its contents. “A messenger hawk came about a month ago. It had an arrow sticking out of it—Targaryen judging from the red and gold fletching—and died on the spot.”

Sokka let out a ragged breath, unfurling the scroll to find that it was covered in bloodied fingerprints. The writing was desperate and jagged, the sloppy scrawl of someone who was running out of time.

_Hakoda Stark,_

_I know our Houses haven’t been on the best of terms as of late, but there’s no time to reignite old feuds_ — _the Targaryens are once again on the war path._

_We’ve recently been struggling with raids from House Lannister, which has been working very closely with the Targaryens but has yet to swear fealty, but one of our correspondents found out that the Lannisters were carrying out these raids on orders of House Targaryen._

_When I confronted them about this, they said they would stop if we bent the knee._

_I refused, and within the next fortnight they ambushed our stronghold, slaughtering all who resisted and even killing my daughter, Yue. I will be dead soon, too, but I must warn you._

_The Targaryens are going make you an offer you cannot refuse. Do not resist, or your House will die just as mine will. They have their eyes set on Ba Sing Se and are preparing to launch an attack against House Baratheon—this time there’s no Avatar to stop them._

_Please make the right choice._

_\--Arnook Tully_

_Lord of Riverrun and Warden in the North_

Sokka exhaled raggedly, running his fingers over the bloodstains and Arnook Tully’s final words.

“House Tully is gone?” Sokka whispered.

“The most powerful waterbender House in the North, all dead,” Bato drawled, his lips curling. “So are half of their vassals. House Blackwood, House Whent, House Piper…and more. They fought bravely.”

Sokka pinched himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. For all he knew, the Weirwood had plunged him into a hyper-realistic trance as punishment for the upcoming meeting with the Targaryens.

But no, he was awake. This was real life.

“They will never take Ba Sing Se,” Sokka growled, the letter crumpling slightly in his iron grip. “All of the earthbender Houses have sworn allegiance to House Baratheon. The allied forces of House Beifong alone could wipe out the entire Targaryen army.”

“But the Targaryens aren’t fighting by themselves,” Hakoda shot back. “They’ve already garnered the support of _three_ of the ten great Houses, on top of all of the lesser firebender Houses that have already sworn allegiance. House Lannister of the nonbenders— obviously— House Arryn of the firebenders…”

He trailed off, his eyes startlingly empty. Sokka was pretty sure he and Lord Arryn had been good friends, once.

“What else?” Sokka whispered. “You said three of the ten great Houses. What’s the third?”

_It’s not House Baratheon or Beifong, definitely not the Martells of Kyoshi Island, and House Tully is dead…what House is left? Maybe the Tyrells of Omashu? But aren’t they allied to the Baratheons…?_

For once, he wished he hadn’t skipped out on his lessons.

He also didn’t think the situation could get any worse.

House Arryn’s declaration of loyalty to the Targaryens was already an insult, and the Lannisters were a whole other beast on their own. Despite being nonbenders, they were the most powerful House besides the Targaryens and the Baratheons. What they lacked in bending, they made up for in skill and numbers; every nonbender in the world whose family name meant nothing had sworn allegiance to them.

“It’s House Greyjoy,” Bato finished, raising his goblet with a wry laugh. “A toast to House fucking Greyjoy.”

Sokka feared he’d be sick.

The Targaryens had allied with the Starks’ old enemy, the House that they’d only just freshly defeated when his father had first become Lord of Winterfell. The House that had killed Sokka and Katara’s mother.

Hakoda’s voice was trembling as he desperately clung to his composure, “The firelord told me that the Greyjoys had asked for Winterfell in return for their fealty. He refused, stating that House Stark had never wronged him. He told me that if…if we did not accept the offer of his son’s hand in marriage, Winterfell would be the first to fall.”

“Do we have to fight for him?” Sokka hissed. “In the war?”

“Yes. He wants our best waterbenders and three hundred knights and bowmen…with me leading them. I'll be setting off with the Targaryens following the wedding celebrations, leaving you in charge of Winterfell.”

Sokka bared his teeth, fury bursting up to replace his shock and disbelief. “So I guess we belong to the Targaryens now, huh?! Ozai wants to unite all of the Houses into one nation and you’re letting him get what he wants! House Stark is not a _vassal_ to anyone!”

“Would you rather be slaughtered?!” Hakoda bellowed, slamming his hands on the table and making all of the inkwells rattle. “If I’d refused, you, me, Katara, and every single person who bears the name Stark would be burned alive! Everyone in Winterfell, all of your friends and the very people that our House has sworn to protect, would be brutally broken to the Greyjoys’ heel and die if they refused. Men, women, children. I will not let my pride be the death of House Stark.”

It was only then that Sokka realized his father was crying, silent tears making their way down his face.

Sokka’s anger rushed out of him in a torrent, leaving just as quickly as it had come, and he knew he couldn’t stay mad at his father. Hakoda’s reign had been filled with difficult choices; first the war with House Greyjoy, and now the struggle against House Targaryen.

But unlike with the war, there was no right choice in this matter; bring dishonor upon the name of House Stark by siding with a power-hungry conqueror, or set all of his people—his children, his relatives, his warriors and vassals—to the Targaryens’ sword.

Sokka wondered, with mounting terror, if he would have to make such a significant decision when he was Lord of Winterfell. He’d always thought that day was a long way off, but no—his father was going off to fight on the wrong side of a war, leaving him and Katara behind. 

There was a long stretch of silence between them, heavy with unasked questions.

Finally, Sokka murmured, “Does Katara know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does…does she know that she’ll have to marry Prince Zuko?”

“Sokka…” Hakoda trailed off, as if he didn’t have enough strength to say what came next. “Katara won’t be marrying Prince Zuko.”

“Then who—?”

Hakoda gave him a look, and the realization settled on him like the weight of a corpse. He was too numb from the shock of what Hakoda had told him beforehand to even react to the ultimatum he’d just been given.

“Mazel tov, Sokka,” Bato rumbled, tipping his head and raising his goblet once more to down the rest of its contents.

Sokka didn’t cry, didn’t shout. A part of him thinks it would’ve been better if he had.

Instead, he just asked, “Why?”

“Because you’re the firstborn and next in line to become the Lord of Winterfell. Ozai wants the power that you’ll have.”

“But the firelord has a daughter too, right? Azula? Why wouldn’t he make her marry me?”

“Because for some reason, he’s recently named Azula the next in line to become firelord, despite being the younger sibling. You are too far beneath her—she will probably marry a Lannister. Or a Baratheon, once they’re defeated and need to keep the peace among their newly conquered people.”

Hakoda tried to make his voice sound light, “But Ozai has agreed that Zuko will be coming to live here in Winterfell, rather than you going to Capital City. He will take the name Stark.”

“What about heirs?”

“I’ve already written a decree that states that Katara’s firstborn child will be the next in line after you.” Hakoda slid a piece of paper over to Sokka, handing him a quill that he reached out mechanically to take. “My signature is already on it…now all you have to do is sign it yourself.”

A pause, and then, “I’m…I’m so sorry, Sokka. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

 _Me neither,_ Sokka thought. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely keep a hold of the quill in his hand.

“What’s he like?” Sokka whispered harshly.

“Zuko? Ambassador Iroh has told me he is a kind, quiet boy. Though…he’s recently been in a training accident, which has left one side of his face terribly burnt.”

“He’s a firebender?”

“He is.”

Sokka looked over the decree, the frightening ultimatum stating that Katara’s children would be the heirs to House Stark following Sokka’s death.

“If I don’t sign this paper, everyone here will die?” Sokka murmured.

“Pretty much,” Bato said with a shrug as he poured himself some more wine. “I mean, that paper’s just the heir thing. If you don’t sign it, that means just House Stark will die off. But if you don’t marry that Zuko kid…yeah, everyone here will die.”

Sokka signed it because it was the right thing to do, not because it was what he wanted.

It was his first sacrifice for House Stark, and it wouldn’t be the last.

He returned to his room in tears, throwing himself onto the furs on his bed like a scorned princess and trying desperately to quiet the sobs that were bubbling up from his throat.

It wasn’t even that Zuko was a guy, it was the fact that Sokka didn’t have a choice—the fact that Zuko was a fucking _Targaryen_ , a bribe as some sort of half-assed offering in return for House Stark’s armies and honor.

Yue hopped onto the bed with a whimper, snuggling up close to Sokka in an attempt to console. Her namesake was dead, slaughtered at the hands of the family of his future husband.

“Can you believe this, Yue?” Sokka hiccupped into the dire wolf’s fur, his face smothered into her neck in hopes that it would give him at least an inkling of comfort. “My whole life somehow managed to fall apart all in one day.”

_(^The above image was contributed by the lovely vekadraws on Tumblr!! Go drop a follow!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!! I've been working super hard on this, and I'd really appreciate it if you guys left a comment/kudos! If you've decided you're committed, I suggest you strap in and get ready for a WILD ride!
> 
> This story contains some bits and pieces of plot from Game of Thrones--I've lifted some character details/major events straight from the show, but for the most part the plot is specifically tailored for the ATLA universe.


	2. Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko seeks guidance from his uncle in hopes it will help him cope with his betrothal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Mentions of genocide, mentions of rape/noncon, mentions of suicide attempt

**II.**

**CRIPPLES, BASTARDS, AND BROKEN THINGS**

_“Winter is Coming.”_

The words of House Stark, perhaps the oldest words to ever have been taken by any House.

It was an ultimatum, an inevitability.

And yet…wasn’t it always winter in the South Pole? What was the use of saying “winter is coming” when it snowed every single day and the entire landscape was a wasteland of ice?

“Prince Zuko? Prince Zuko!”

Zuko jolted out of his thoughts, his back snapping straight as his teacher glared daggers at him and his sister smothered her laugh with a cough.

“My deepest apologies, Professor Kunyo,” Zuko stammered. “I…I was…”

“Daydreaming, like usual,” Azula sighed, and though her tone was light and her lips smiled, her eyes glinted like dagger points. “What would father think?”

Kunyo ignored Azula. “I asked you a question, Prince Zuko. What are the words of House Stark?”

The boat lurched with a sound like grinding ice—they’d be reaching the South Pole soon—and Zuko nearly toppled out of his desk as the room pitched back and forth and the lanterns overhead flickered and swayed wildly.

They were at the bottom of the ship in a makeshift classroom, scrolls and books rolling and sliding around with the movement of the ship, and Zuko would’ve given _anything_ to be back in his bed in Capitol City.

“Winter is coming,” he said once the boat had stabilized.

“And what do those words mean?”

Zuko hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as he fiddled with his ink brush. “It’s…it’s a warning.”

“Of what?”

“To…uh…to be constantly vigilant. It reminds the Starks to always be prepared for darker times, and it’s a cautioning to other Houses that would dare to cross them because they will…um…bring the winter.”

“Very good,” Kunyo said with a nod. “You’ve grown very knowledgeable of House Stark. This will greatly benefit you in the future.”

Azula’s smile somehow widened, and Zuko withered in his seat.

He didn’t want to think about why they were going to Winterfell in the first place.

“This next question is for both of you,” Kunyo stated, flipping through the thick, leather-bound book emblazoned with the Stark dire wolf sigil. “Can either of you name all of the Starks’ vassal Houses?”

Zuko knew that Azula knew the vassal Houses. She knew everything about every House—she was studying become the next firelord, after all.

But when he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, she’d crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, a barely-contained grin playing on her lips.

Zuko didn’t know all of the Starks’ vassal Houses. He wasn’t even sure if he knew _one_. And Azula was aware. She just loved to watch him flounder and make a fool of himself.

“Neither of you?” Kunyo demanded, slamming the book shut with a sound that made Zuko flinch. “You children cannot name a _single_ House that’s sworn fealty to House Stark? This is simple review!”

“Um…House Mormont of…of Bear Island.” The words sounded more like a question than an answer, and Zuko ducked his head at the scathing look Kunyo leveled his way. “And…um…House Ember, no, Umber. House Umber of the Last Hearth.”

“What else?”

Those were the only two Zuko’s brain had managed to scrounge up.

Kunyo rose from his seat and strode over to Zuko’s desk. “ _What else_ , Prince Zuko?”

“Uh…” He racked his memory, struggling to recall the names of the southern waterbender Houses they’d gone over previously.

_House Greyjoy? No. Definitely not the Greyjoys. Weren’t they at war with them a while ago or something? House…Beifong? No, no, no. Why the hell can’t I remember anything?_

Zuko wished he was more like Azula. She could hear something once and absorb it like a sponge, without ever having to study or anything. If only she used her vast knowledge to help him rather than to make his life miserable.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, his face burning. “I don’t know any other ones.”

“Prince Zuko, you do understand your situation, do you not?” Kunyo growled.

“I do.”

“And, pray tell, how do you plan on being successful in this situation if you don’t know any of the vassal Houses who’ve sworn fealty to House Stark?”

“I knew some of them,” Zuko muttered.

He wasn’t surprised when Kunyo whacked his hand with a ruler, and he winced at the angry red welt it left behind, though he didn’t dare recoil.

“Azula, can _you_ name all of the vassals of House Stark?”

“Of course, Professor,” Azula declared cheerfully. The stupid, perfect little schoolgirl.

She listed them all off in quick, ruthless succession. House Glover of Deepwood Motte, House Karstark of Karhold, House Manderly of White Harbor…

It was all a blur of names and places, a completely incomprehensible drabble. It was pointless.

“…and finally, the quite unorthodox House Reed of the Foggy Swamp. The only vassal of House Stark that doesn’t live at the South Pole.”

“Excellent. You have a mighty fine memory, Princess Azula.”

She soaked in the praise like a lioness lapping up the blood of a dying animal, and Zuko sagged further into his chair as Kunyo picked up the thick tome of House Stark off of his desk, and slammed it down in front of Zuko.

_The Lives and Legacies of House Stark of Winterfell._

Good spirits, even the _title_ was boring.

“You will read this tonight,” Kunyo said. “This has everything you need to know about House Stark. Tomorrow, I will give you a quiz. If you fail, I will tell your father.”

Zuko would not fail.

“Now, continuing on to traditional Winterfell dishes—"

The lesson dragged on for what felt like forever, with Kunyo rambling on and on about House Stark’s eating habits, clothing, and even their preferred system of naming their horses.

By the time the lesson was over, all Zuko wanted to do was collapse onto his bed and sleep the rest of the day away. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d go into a deep coma for the rest of his life and wouldn’t have to deal with any of this bullshit.

“Who even uses horses anymore?” Azula sighed as the two of them scurried out of the classroom, Zuko struggling beneath the weight of the gigantic book about House Stark. “They’re like…on the brink of extinction. Ugh, that man gives me a _headache_.”

“No kidding,” Zuko agreed, for once not entirely against what his sister was saying. “The Starks seem pretty eccentric.”

He was still angry at her about the vassal Houses, but there was no point in staying mad at Azula; she didn’t care and would never apologize, no matter how hostile Zuko got or how much he gave her the cold shoulder.

They turned a corner, a pair of patrolling guards bowing to them as they passed, and began to climb the stairs to the upper deck.

“ _Eccentric?_ They’re practically savages. What kind of advanced civilization worships trees and goes cavorting around wearing animal furs?”

“The kind that live in the South Pole,” Zuko retorted, wishing his arms weren’t full so that he could rub them for warmth.

His traditional garb and his firebender body temperature were no match for the biting chill of the south. He wondered why anyone would _ever_ want to live here; if he were a member of a southern waterbender House, he probably would’ve booked it to the north the moment he got the chance.

“Want to spar a little?” Azula asked once they got to the upper deck. “I’ve been working on some new stances.”

The churning, iceberg-speckled ocean stretched out before them under a solemn grey sky flecked with circling gulls, and the wind battered them mercilessly from all sides.

The ship itself was shining metal that was blinding in the sun, and countless Targaryen flags displaying the three-headed dragon fluttered wildly in the wind.

“No thank you. Uncle invited me for tea after class, and I have to study,” Zuko told her. “Maybe some other time.”

He also didn’t want to get his ass handed to him in front of so many high-ranking officials and guards who were milling about, but it’s not like he would ever tell her that.

“Well, have fun.” Her eyebrow twitched, though her expression never wavered—she was clearly miffed that uncle hadn’t extended the invitation to her. “I find it odd how you’d rather sip tea with a crotchety old man than improve your subpar firebending skills.”

Zuko didn’t bother entertaining her with a response, instead turning on his heel and heading back into the depths of the ship. He could feel Azula’s gaze burning holes in his back, and he tried his best to pretend he didn’t notice.

He held his breath all the way to Uncle Iroh’s room and only remembered to exhale when the door opened before he could even raise his hand to knock.

“Ah, Prince Zuko,” Iroh chuckled, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

Zuko inclined his head respectfully before hurrying inside with the book of House Stark still clutched in his arms.

The room was cluttered with books and smelled strongly of a jasmine, a dizzying aroma that made Zuko want to collapse onto his uncle’s cot and take a long nap, and the walls were draped in red and gold fabric to lighten up the solemnness that came with having no windows.

Zuko considered Uncle Iroh’s room a sanctuary, a place he could relax and be himself without worrying about the judgmental gazes from Azula, his father, or the rest of the diplomats on board.

The tea table was already set, white plumes of steam curling from the spout of the teapot, and Zuko was shocked to find that his uncle was using his most prized china. He usually only brought it out for special occasions.

“Sit.” The word was light and had no weight behind it, a suggestion rather than an order.

“Why the fancy tea set?” Zuko asked, lowering himself onto a plush red pillow across from his uncle and setting the thick tome off to the side. “Is today important?”

“I always use this set before I arrive to a foreign place,” Iroh explained as he poured himself and Zuko a cup with the skill of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. “It brings good luck.”

The tea was still boiling, and Zuko blew on it gingerly before taking a tentative sip. It was refreshing on his tongue, and the familiar smell of it eased his ruminating mind.

“Have you been putting on the salve I gave you for your face?”

“Yes, I have. It’s been helping” Zuko’s hand unconsciously sought out the mangled flesh around his left eye, smoothing his fingers over it and glad that it wasn’t hurting as badly anymore. “I think I’m…slowly getting used to it.”

By “getting used to it,” he meant he’d taken down all of the mirrors in his room and had avoided looking at his reflection at all costs so he wouldn’t feel disgusted with what he saw. Still, just touching the skin made his stomach churn and go sour, the ugly feeling of shame creeping up in the back of his throat.

“That’s good to hear. Acceptance is the best thing you can do with a situation that has already happened. Harping on the past or what you could’ve done to avoid this outcome accomplishes nothing.”

Of course, Iroh was referencing how Zuko had spoken out against his father at a war council and had subsequently been horrifically burned by his father in an Agni Kai. The scar it had left behind was nothing compared to the rest of his punishment, which was looming up before him like an inevitable rising tide.

He was just glad he could still see and didn’t have to cut his hair.

He’d seen the haircuts of other firebenders who’d brought shame to their Houses. They were…dreadful doesn’t even _begin_ to describe it.

“So, how were your lessons? I see you have quite a bit of homework.”

“I didn’t remember all of the vassals for House Stark,” Zuko sighed, glancing at the red mark that still lingered on his hand from the ruler. “Professor Kunyo said that I’m having a quiz on House Stark tomorrow and…if I fail, he’ll…he’ll tell my father.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Iroh huffed, and Zuko smiled faintly at the reassurance that at least someone agreed with him on something. “I’ll help you study. I probably know more about the Starks than that old dust bag ever could.”

“Are you sure about that? He never lets us forget that he studied at the Citadel for twenty years.”

“I serve as ambassador to Winterfell once every three months. Kunyo’s never left Capitol City. There’s not much you can learn about a place without having ever visited it; surprisingly enough, Winterfell is one of my favorite strongholds to travel to.”

“Really? It’s so…cold.”

“Oh yes, the weather _is_ despicable,” Iroh agreed, picking up a wafer from the dish and popping it into his mouth. “But the Starks are wonderful hosts. They’re a strong, hardy people…sometimes gruff and offensively blunt, if I’m being honest.”

He laughed to himself and patted his stomach pointedly. “They don’t call Hakoda Stark ‘The Wolf of the South’ for nothing—that man has got some teeth on him, especially when it comes to making sure his House gets what it needs…or when he’s had a bit too much to drink and starts dropping hard truths without warning.”

“Doesn’t sound very proper of him,” Zuko deadpanned, bristling at the idea of some pompous bastard insulting his uncle. “A true Lord would put diplomacy first…and would never be intoxicated in front of visiting ambassadors.”

“What are you talking about? Drinking with the Lords is the best part!” Iroh declared, almost spilling some tea on himself when the boat pitched at a dangerous angle. “Winterfell has some of the best ale I’ve ever had; it really warms you up, and on top of that, the Starks also provide warm clothes and make sure the fires are always roaring. As long as you make merry and don’t hang around outside for too long, the cold won’t be too much of a bother.”

“I hope I get used to it,” Zuko murmured.

His knuckles had gone white around his teacup, and he was staring down at his lap in the hopes that he could will away the tears that were threatening to spill over his cheeks.

“Listen to me, Zuko. The Starks are a good people—I’ve met all of them. Their hearts are warm despite the cold. Much warmer than the hearts of anyone here.”

“But my father said…” Zuko shook his head bitterly. “Never mind.”

“Tell me. I don’t want my brother filling your head with lies just to make you afraid.”

_And father told me he didn’t want you filling my head with fanciful stories that would get my hopes up,_ Zuko thought, setting down his teacup so he could wring his hands in his lap.

“He said the Starks are barbarians. They’re a lawless band of hunter-gatherers who can barely read and speak by barking at each other. He told me that we’re only allies with them because they offer some rare tradable commodities.”

Iroh shot him a narrow-eyed look that wasn’t quite a glare but just annoyed enough to show he was irritated. “Give me that book, Zuko.”

The ancient tome was a bit too heavy for him to lift up and pass over the table, but he somehow managed to fumble it into his uncle’s awaiting grasp.

Iroh cleared off part of the table, removing the teapot and the various biscuits and wafers he’d set out alongside it, so he could set the book down between them so that it was facing upright for Zuko.

Its spine snapped and popped like a fire when his uncle cracked it open, to the point where Zuko feared the entire thing would snap itself in half. The pages smelled musty and were thinner than onionskin, and the words were painted small and crammed too close together for it to be even vaguely decipherable.

The book was beautiful, though; the margins swirled with carefully inked images of leaping wolves, galloping horses, and trees with faces carved into their trunks, and the ugly blocks of text were occasionally interrupted by wonderful ink drawings of people and places.

Uncle Iroh flipped past all thirty pages of the introduction— Zuko prayed that his quiz would be exclusively on the Starks and not on the book itself—until he reached a set of pages that depicted a sprawling family tree dotted with names.

At the very top of the tree’s canopy was Burlaq the Builder, the first man to ever bear the name Stark and the founder of Winterfell.

At the bottom were Sokka and Katara, hovering near the roots among their cousins.

Between them—eleven generations of Starks.

If Zuko didn’t know better, he’d think that the people who wrote this were either lying, stupid, crazy, or all three; no House that Zuko had ever known boasted _twelve_ generations. He himself was only the sixth of his name.

But no, there it was outlined in gold—a family line trickling down through the ages.

Four hundred years’ worth of House Stark.

Four hundred years’ worth of power.

“Does this look barbaric to you at all? Does this look uncivilized?” Iroh demanded.

“It doesn’t.”

“You see? The reason why the Starks are so adamant about keeping their old ways—staying in a cold climate, wearing furs, riding horses—is because they’ve been living their way of life for twice as long as we have. These traditions, this culture, has been around for centuries.”

Iroh ran his hand over the crisply inked names before thumbing through the pages, decades of history rushing by with every flick of his wrist.

Burlaq the Builder, first of his name. Said to be a descendant of the Great Wolf Spirit and thus chose a snarling dire wolf for his sigil.

Munah Stark, third of her name. The first Lady of Winterfell and an accomplished waterbender. Negotiated with and gained House Stark’s first vassals.

“Ah, Kunyo. Caring more about following the rules than actual history,” Iroh sighed, pointing to where huge chunks of the biography of Kodir Stark, fifth of his name, had been smothered with huge blots of ink.

“What happened to it? An accident?”

Zuko already knew it wasn’t but still asked anyway; the black lines had clearly been applied with a brush, too neat to be considered the fault of a tipped inkwell. Kunyo had even covered up an entire page that must’ve once been a detailed rendering of something. 

“Kodir was the Lord of Winterfell during the Great Conquest. This book, of course, tells it from his point of view, which paints our House in a…rather negative light.”

Iroh shook his head. “I don’t understand why they even bother trying to censor anything. When you tear out a man’s tongue, you are not proving him a liar—you’re only telling the world that you fear what he might say.”

Zuko pursed his lips. He knew exactly what his ancestors had done to the Starks, no matter how much his father and the council tried to hide it.

The truth was seeping through the crevices of life like weeds through stones, hidden away in the subtleties of the world.

It was clear in the banners depicting the Great Conquest that hung in his father’s war room, in the swirling fire that burst from the mouths of inked dragons and the triumphant faces of a thousand painted armies on the march.

It was clear in the old scrolls that were stored away in the archives of the palace, which featured a three-headed dragon with its feet planted on the neck of a dying wolf, proclaiming victory in bold, delighted strokes.

_Fire and blood._

It had _always_ been fire and blood.

“What happened to Kodir?” he finally managed to ask. “I know he lost the Battle of the Frozen Fires and Winterfell was sacked, but—”

“He and his wife were both burned alive mere hours before the Avatar arrived to intervene. They’d fought honorably; his wife even managed to singlehandedly bring down a dragon. The only reason House Stark survived at all was because they’d sent their children away two days beforehand.”

Burning the past Lord and Lady Stark alive didn’t sound like something that could be forgiven very easily, and Zuko went cold all over when he realized that he’d have to be living among these people for the rest of his life—people whose ancestors had been killed and terrorized by Zuko’s ancestors.

“Where…where did they send them?”

Uncle Iroh grinned, taking a biscuit from one of the trays off the floor and popping it into his mouth. “Originally, they were going to be going to House Umber’s stronghold at the Last Hearth, but at the last minute it was decided that the Weirwood grove would be a better choice.”

“The Weirwood grove?! But that’s not far from Winterfell at all!”

“And the Last Hearth got raided not hours after the Battle of the Frozen Fires had begun. The last remaining members of House Stark would’ve been slaughtered.”

“But how could a…a group of _flammable_ trees protect kids from an army of firebenders?”

“You’d be surprised. The Weirwood grove is a wonderfully dangerous place, a safe haven for its allies and a living hell for its enemies. I’ve seen it in action, from the outskirts, though I’ve never been allowed inside.

“The Starks didn’t let you?”

“No, the Weirwood grove didn’t. It…still holds a grudge.”

Zuko’s skepticism must’ve shown on his face, because his uncle sat up straighter on his pillow and took another sip of tea as he started to flip through the pages again. “You believe in the spirits, do you not?”

“ _Of course_ I believe in the spirits.”

“Then what makes your spirits more or less valid than the Starks’ spirits? I’ve been trying to build up my trust with the Weirwood grove over the years, but it’s almost as stubborn as the House that protects it.”

“Professor Kunyo told us that it wasn’t anything more than an ordinary forest.”

Iroh paused mid-sip, leveling Zuko with a tired and disappointed stare.

“Think about it, Zuko…How could _any_ forest _possibly_ be ordinary in the South Pole? How could an _ordinary forest_ survive on the ice?”

He hadn’t considered that.

Uncle was always pointing out obvious things in a way that make Zuko feel like an absolute bumbling idiot.

“Perhaps once we arrive at Winterfell, I’ll take you to it so you can see it firsthand. How does that sound?” Iroh suggested, and Zuko cracked a smile, nodding. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll like you more than it likes me.”

“I highly doubt that,” Zuko huffed.

If his uncle, who was more attuned with the balance of the world than Zuko ever could be, had been rejected by the spirits in the Weirwood grove, there was no way that someone as prickly and hotheaded as Zuko himself would even be allowed near it.

Iroh finally reached the part of the book that contained the Starks who were actually alive and relevant, and Zuko leaned in so he could get a closer look.

His stomach had suddenly gone sour, and even though he still firmly held on to his cup of tea, he was allowing it to go cold without bothering to drink.

_HAKODA STARK, ELEVENTH OF HIS NAME._

_Lord of Winterfell and The Wolf of the South._

The artist had depicted a regal, stern-faced man who had beads braided into his hair and was cloaked in thick furs and shining armor. His eyes were sharp and calculating, as if he could pick apart Zuko’s entire life story just by peering at him through the page.

“I can see why they call him the Wolf of the South. Kind of like how you’re the Dragon of the West.”

“It sounds like the same sort of thing, doesn’t it?” Iroh mused. “But while I have a title that can be earned, Hakoda’s title…it’s more of a nickname. He earned it during a five-year war with House Greyjoy.”

“Yeah, I heard about that in classes,” Zuko murmured, skimming some of the paragraphs that were adjacent to Hakoda’s portrait and feeling his heart slowly sink down to his stomach. “But…I don’t really remember any of this.”

_Many started likening Hakoda Stark to his House’s sigil as he hunted down House Greyjoy and its vassals following the death of his wife, Kya Glover, during a Greyjoy raid._

_Along with Bato of House Mormont, and various other heads of vassal Houses—his “pack,” as some called it—Hakoda ravaged every single Greyjoy settlement along the coast of the South Pole, driving them completely off of the continent and out onto the sea._

_The Greyjoys refused to surrender until the bitter end, when Hakoda Stark and his pack stormed their stronghold at Pyke and slew Lord Greyjoy’s wife and two eldest sons, leaving only his youngest boy and his daughter left._

_To this day, the Greyjoys and their vassals sing lullabies to their children, warning them of the wolf named Stark who prowls in the night._

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Zuko whispered as he re-read the passage over and over and over again just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. His face was starting to heat up, the shock and dismay churning in his gut slowly boiling away into fury. “Is this serious?”

“Please calm down, Prince Zuko. I will be very cross with you if you shatter one of my favorite teacups. Perhaps you should pour yourself another helping.”

“I don’t _want_ any more tea!” Zuko snapped. “This whole situation is just getting worse and worse. You told me that our House killed one of their past Lords and Ladies and try to burn down their magic trees, and now I’m reading that we’re also allied to the House that killed Lady Stark?”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“They’re going to hate me, uncle! They’re going to _kill_ me—!”

“They won’t kill you. You’re a child and had nothing to do with any of this.”

But Zuko wasn’t listening. His gaze darted wildly around the room, searching for answers that may be reflected in the taciturn metal walls or hidden away in the folds of the various banners, but there was nothing.

“Father told me how they execute people. I…I don’t want to die like that.”

“Die like what?” Iroh prompted.

“He told me that they give you a three-hour head start to run as far as you can, and then they come after you on horseback with dogs. When they catch you, they let the dogs eat you alive.”

“Sounds like quite the spectacle,” Iroh said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. “I hope one day I get to see something like that.”

Without warning, Iroh flipped to the next page.

_SOKKA STARK, TWELFTH OF HIS NAME._

Zuko’s breath got caught in his throat as if someone had wrapped a hand around his neck and was crushing his windpipe little by little.

A part of him wanted to snap the book shut, carry it to the upper deck, and toss it into the sea so he wouldn’t have to bear the sight of it, but his uncle was watching with eyes like a hawk, and he didn’t want to make him upset.

“Look, Zuko.” Iroh pointed to the page, where Sokka’s portrait would undoubtedly be, but Zuko screwed his eyes shut tightly and turned his head away. “Look.”

“I don’t want to,” Zuko snarled, curling in on himself.

“You must. You will never be able to overcome this if you won’t even face it.”

“Uncle, I—”

“Look. Please.”

Zuko let out a shuddering breath, clutching his teacup against his chest as if it were a lifeline, and peeled open his eyes one by one to gaze upon Sokka Stark.

Inked into the page was a portrait of a teenaged water tribe boy who looked every bit as cunning as his father.

His head was shaved severely on either side, the remaining hair at the top of his head pulled and braided back into a wolf tail, and his eyes were bluer than the sky on a cloudless day. He was wearing the same kind of furs as his father, and he was flanked on one side by a gigantic white wolf that looked more like a beast than a pet.

There was no doubt that Sokka Stark was very handsome, but the mere act of beholding his portrait made Zuko sick to his stomach with fear.

_Sokka Stark is the firstborn and only son of Hakoda Stark and Kya Glover, and is known in the South Pole as the Young Wolf._

_He earned the title after an attempted raid by House Greyjoy on a fishing town near Winterfell, where he slew six men at the age of fourteen while riding horseback. This feat reminded many southerners of Hakoda Stark’s own plights at a young age, and thus the play on his father’s nickname was born._

There was another drawing beneath that—Sokka Stark with half the face of a man, and half of a wolf, almost as if he were transforming.

“What’s this for?” Zuko asked, pointing to it, and when he looked up at his uncle, his lungs felt like they’d shriveled up into pebbles inside of his chest at the solemn expression.

“Do you want the truth?” he asked. “Or do you want me to make you feel better?”

Zuko’s stomach curdled. “The truth.”

Iroh placed his tea down on its saucer gently, motioning for Zuko to lean in, and Zuko feared his heart would pound right out of his chest as he obeyed.

“It’s rumored that ‘The Young Wolf’ may not be just a reference to Hakoda’s nickname,” Iroh murmured. “Sokka is the only one who has truly befriended the Weirwood grove and…some say that the spirits granted him a special gift in return, the ability to transform into a wolf when the moon is full and the southern skies dance with green light.”

Zuko would’ve laughed it off, but his uncle’s face was stony, not a hint of his usual humor hidden within it.

“What else?” he rasped.

“He has a gigantic white dire wolf as his companion, as pictured, whom he named after a northern princess from House Tully who…has recently passed.”

Zuko pursed his lips; the plan for the invasion of Riverrun and the slaughter of House Tully was why he’d spoken out in the first place.

They’d died anyway, though, and now his life was in shambles on top of that.

“He rides the wolf into battle, and there are rumors it feasts only on human flesh and is large enough to swallow a Komodo rhino whole. Sokka can meld his consciousness with it and control it with his own mind.”

“But you said you’ve met Sokka before, and you must’ve seen the wolf at some point!” Zuko cried. “Are the rumors true?”

Uncle Iroh locked eyes with him, and Zuko held his gaze the best he could, wondering with growing agitation why nobody had never mentioned these rumors to him before.

But then Iroh’s serious expression wavered, his lips quirking just slightly before he threw his head back with an uproarious bark of laughter.

“Uncle!” Zuko snapped, his disbelief quickly morphing into fury. “Why would you do that?!”

“Because I knew you would believe it,” Iroh snickered. “I was going to keep it up for a little longer, but my resolve failed me. I would’ve given in eventually, though.”

“Don’t do that again.” Zuko had tried to make his words forceful, but they came out timid and small. “Please.”

Iroh’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, Zuko. I know I shouldn’t be making jokes, especially about—”

Zuko’s eyes fluttered closed, and he willed his uncle not to say it.

“—your future husband.”

Zuko’s entire body locked up.

He’d been avoiding mentioning it, avoiding even thinking about it, as if completely blocking it out of his mind would make it any less real.

He feared he would chuck his uncle’s prized teacup halfway across the room in his fury, so he just short of slammed it back down onto its saucer with a rattle.

_“Well, he’s not my husband yet!”_ Zuko roared as he leapt to his feet, tangling his hands into his hair and pacing around the room like a caged animal. “Joke all you want about him!”

He wanted to burn something.

He wanted to scorch something to dust and know he’d caused it, know that he still had some control over what he did in his own life.

“All rumors aside, Sokka is a very nice boy,” Iroh said, infinitely patient as he took another sip of tea. “I’ve spoken with him many times, and no, he doesn’t transform into a wolf on the full moon.”

Zuko didn’t say anything for a long time, standing with his back to his uncle as he tried to will away the tears.

He thought his scarring had been enough. He thought that he’d be forgiven after his father marked him so he’d never forget his own failure, but no…he was being married off to—scrap that, _sold to_ —some Stark boy in exchange for an army.

It was the ultimate punishment, forcing him to relinquish the Targaryen name while his sister took the throne. His father thought he was worthless, meant to be nothing but a pretty bargaining chip for other Houses to covet so they could bring a powerful family into their bloodline.

He’d be stuck with this Stark boy—Sokka—for the rest of his life. He would die within the gates of Winterfell in shame.

“Is he…is he kind?” Zuko whispered finally. He felt as though all of the life was draining out of him right before his eyes, crumbling to pieces and strewing itself across the floor.

“He is. His heart is big, and he has a very good sense of humor. He’ll treat you very well.”

He knew his uncle was lying, just like how he’d lied about the wolves and the shapeshifters. Zuko’s father had already told him what Sokka was like, had already told him what the boy intended to do with him. 

_"Winterfell is a cruel, unforgiving place. Their society is built like a pack, and you will be arriving as the lowest of the low,”_ he remembered his father telling him during a meeting in his study. Zuko had still had the bandages over his eye and was waking up from nightmares of the Agni Kai every night. _“Your husband’s status will keep you safe for the most part, but it can’t protect you from everything. For instance, it can’t protect you from your husband.”_

Zuko had asked his father the same thing he’d asked his uncle. _“Is he kind?”_

_“What does it matter? He could have the cruelest reputation of any heir in the history of the world, and the betrothal would still stand. No matter what, you will stay with him in Winterfell and take the name Stark.”_

_“But…but will he be kind?”_

_“No,”_ his father had said with a smile twisting his lips, and Zuko had worried he might tremble right out of his own skin. _“He doesn’t even like men; he probably wanted a wife, a family, and you’ll be the constant reminder of everything he can’t have. Starks have volatile tempers, and he’s no different—you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t beat you and fuck you bloody every night. He might share you with his warriors, maybe even his pet dire wolf.”_

Zuko had run back to his room crying, had crumbled to his knees beside his bed and wished with all of his might that he could take back everything he’d said at his father’s war council. He’d wanted to disappear. He’d wanted some way, anyway, to escape this fate that’d been placed before him.

He’d been nearly halfway out the window when his uncle had burst into the room and dragged him away, consoling him until he was no longer in fitful hysterics.

_“Please! Please don’t tell father that I almost…He’ll punish me. He’ll burn my other eye, maybe my whole face—”_

They hadn’t talked about it again, but the memories of that night still hung thick between the two of them. That night was the reason why his uncle would tell him anything he wanted to hear, would tell him of how nice and incredible Sokka Stark was so Zuko wouldn’t try to take his own life again.

He’d rather heed his father’s hard truths and prepare himself than indulge in his uncle’s whimsical lies and have his hopes crushed.

House Stark was going to be the death of him.

 _Hey, maybe they’ll rise up against us and then you won’t have to stick to your promise,_ Zuko imagined hopefully as his uncle persuaded him to sit back down.

He smiled at the thought, warming up his tea with his smoldering hands and taking a long sip to calm himself.

If House Stark rebelled, Zuko would be the first one in line to drive his sword through Sokka Stark’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just finished official outlining this bad boy, and lemme tell you it's gonna be a BEAST.
> 
> I really hope you guys liked this chapter, and I would LOVE it if you left a comment/kudos because it hypes me up and helps me write faster when I know there are people waiting to read it :)


	3. Golden Crowns and Burning Banners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka struggles to come to terms with the future that has been laid out for him and considers taking drastic measures in order to avoid it...perhaps costing everyone their lives in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**III.**

**GOLDEN CROWNS AND BURNING BANNERS**

_Sokka was getting married._

_At least, he was pretty sure he was getting married._

_Why else would he be standing at a makeshift altar in the courtyard of Winterfell?_

_He looked out to where all the guests were supposed to be, a bunch of nobles all dressed in their best regalia, but instead two armies were facing off against one another on either side of the aisle, tense and silent._

_Winterfell was burning._

_“This isn’t right,” Sokka said, though he sounded like he was talking through water. “Something isn’t right here.”_

_The bells began to ring, warning of an incoming attack, and both armies didn’t even turn their heads as a figure draped in red and gold stalked down the aisle._

_It was a firebender boy—black hair tied into a topknot, pale skin like porcelain, hooded golden eyes. The only problem was that one side of his face was horrifically burned, the flesh still smoldering, with bits of skin charred black and peeling off to reveal gleaming white bone beneath._

_Sokka tried to run, tried to yell, but he was paralyzed._

_The boy climbed up to the altar to stand before him. His face was ghastly, but he still smiled at Sokka, who offered a tentative smile back._

_“Are you afraid, little wolf?” the boy asked._

_“No,” Sokka lied._

_The boy’s face twisted into a grin, his eyes going aflame with a cruel gleam. “You should be.”_

_And suddenly he was transforming, his skin melting off his skeleton as glittering black scales grew in its place. Horns sprouted from his head, his teeth falling out to be replaced by an arsenal of razor-sharp fangs, and his arms elongated into gigantic wings that blotted out the sun and plunged the whole courtyard into shadow._

_The dragon peeled open its jaws to reveal a white-hot light building up behind its tonsils, and Sokka screamed as a column of flame burst forth to engulf him._

_\---_

He sat bolt upright in bed with a cry, soaked in sweat and breathing like he’d just run a marathon. His head whipped around, wondering where all the death and destruction had gone, but he was in his room.

His safe, ordinary room.

“Holy shit,” Sokka groaned as he ran his hands down his face, wrinkling his nose in disgust when they came back clammy with sweat. “Ugh, why’s it so hot in here?”

He extricated himself from the tangle of furs, waving his arms to try to cool himself down, and found that the fireplace was roaring—the servants had probably banked it sometime during the night, and he was quick to hop out of bed and douse the flames.

The very sight of the fire had made his already jackrabbiting heart launch straight into his throat, and all at once his fear and confusion melted away into fury when he remembered what the dream had been about in the first place. His anger from the night before came back to him in a rush, and he balled his hands into fists.

The day was still new, judging by the sunlight that slanted through the windows on the far wall, and Sokka realized that breakfast was probably going to be served soon, though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest.

His stomach whined like a forlorn puppy. Okay, maybe _a little_ hungry, but there was _no way_ he was going to sit down beside his father after yesterday.

“C’mon, Yue,” Sokka said, shaking the dire wolf from where she was curled beneath the furs like a fluffy nugget, ignoring the way she whined and grumbled. “We’re gonna break some rules.”

He dressed in record time, picking at his teeth and chewing on a mint leaf to get rid of his rancid morning breath, before striding out the door with a grumpy dire wolf at his heels.

Stepping out into the bitter cold after suffocating in the furnace of his room was a slap in the face, and Sokka pulled his furs more tightly around himself as he wove through Winterfell’s narrow stone corridors.

There’d been attempts to make this place homier—blue and white tapestries woven with pearls and silver thread, antlers and animal busts adorning every wall, and stone statues of wolves guarding every threshold—and even though Sokka wouldn’t want it any other way, some parts of Winterfell still gave him the creeps.

He passed by the Great Hall, with its roaring two-story fireplace, cushy seating, towering bookshelves, and gigantic snow leopard caribou head mounted above the mantle. It was cozy, sure, and Sokka had many memories of huddling by Gran Gran’s knee to listen to stories of Sozin the Conqueror and his dragons, but none of the Starks had used it lately. It seemed like too big a place for four people.

There was an exit to the courtyard a little way down the corridor, and Sokka took in a refreshing breath of South Pole air as he and Yue stepped out into the snow.

Winterfell was bustling as always, and Sokka was able to assimilate into the crowd fairly easily. He stopped to talk to the baker, who spoke of one of her grain shipments having been sunk to the bottom of the sea by pirates (Greyjoys, no doubt), and to the farrier, who was enjoying his first week with his new wife.

The man was beaming from ear to ear like a lovesick dope, and Sokka couldn’t help the jealousy that festered in his gut; he himself wouldn’t be smiling like that when _his_ wedding rolled around. He listened to woes of the widowed weaver, gave directions to a tradesman from an earthbender House, helped a distraught cabbage salesman soothe a horse that had tipped his cart, and bent down to hear one of the kids prattle nonsense to him.

By the time he reached the dining hall, he was famished. A delighted babble of voices and a tantalizing aroma emanated through the doors, and he sincerely considered entering before clenching his jaw and continuing on to the stables—despite Yue’s loud complaints.

“Shh! You’re gonna get us caught!” Sokka grouched, shaking her off when she tried to grab onto his trousers and drag him back. “You can hunt something in the Weirwood grove when we get there.”

The dire wolf snarled at him.

“Fine, I’ll double your chicken portions for the rest of the week. Deal?”

He wasn’t sure if she could understand the agreement they’d arranged, but at the mention of the word “chicken” she perked up and followed without any more fuss.

The stables were tucked away in the far reaches of Winterfell, as to make sure that the smell didn’t interrupt meals and important diplomatic meetings, but it was still one of Sokka’s favorite places to visit. Unlike other people, he actually _liked_ the smell of horse, and the sound of their whinnying and shuffling around in their stalls settled his nerves better than any lullaby ever could.

One packed-dirt aisle stretched out for as long as Winterfell’s walls were tall, flanked on either side with stalls cobbled together with wood, stone, and ice. Horses of all shapes and sizes poked their heads out to greet those who passed, begging for treats but losing interest once they were only awarded with neck rubs.

Some were towering and robust, built for pulling the plow in the precious few places where food was grown (with the help of gigantic greenhouses, some imported soil, and quite a bit of waterbender magic), while others were thin and dainty, with ribbons and beads braided into their hair—a promise of a smooth, merry ride with one’s friends.

The coolest ones, though, were the ones in between: big enough to be imposing but small enough to be quick. Though all looked relatively harmless in their stalls, Sokka knew how terrifying they could be when their manes were adorned with feathers and their skin was gleaming with war paint.

“Mornin’ Lord Stark!” one of the stable hands greeted. His spindly arms could barely support the huge bucket of grain he was carrying, and he let it clatter unceremoniously to the ground so he could scurry over and pet Yue.

Dire wolves were always a hit with the kids.

“No offense, but shouldn’t you be at breakfast?” the boy asked, his gap-toothed smile radiant as he scratched Yue behind the ears.

“I’m not hungry this morning,” Sokka lied, trying to keep his voice light. “Need help with that bucket?”

“Nah, I got it.” He returned to his load and hefted it up as if to make a point. “By the way, they had to move your horse to the stall at the end of the line; the cook’s mare just went into heat and he wouldn’t stop bothering her.”

“Sounds like him,” Sokka said with a roll of his eyes. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“No problem, m’lord. Need help tacking up?”

“I’m all good, but thank you.”

The stable hand bustled away, and the first thing that Sokka did before continuing on was to gather up some of his cloak in his arms; the _last_ thing he wanted was for it to be dragging around in the _stables_ of all places. With a dirt floor, there was no way to tell the difference between mud and shit.

He and Katara had soiled a great many pelts when they were younger and had liked to play-wrestle with their dire wolves in the muck, and a shiver went down Sokka’s spine just thinking about it. It was weird how things that’d been normal for him as a kid were suddenly repulsive now that he knew better.

“Shit!” Sokka cried, jolting out of his thoughts at a sharp nip on his arm, and he whirled to find Katara’s brown and white mare glaring at him from her stall.

He’d been too caught up in his own head to give her a wide berth when he’d passed, but thankfully his cloak had protected him from the worst of it…albeit there’d be a huge bruise come morning.

Painted Lady had never seen battle but was nastier than any veteran war horse who resided in this stable, and Sokka wondered what the deal was with Katara and raising animals with a bad attitude.

It didn’t help that Lady and Jet got along like a house on fire, and Sokka always insisted that if they were human, they’d be terrorist partners in crime who’d burn Winterfell to the ground if given the chance. However, unlike with Jet—who would never listen to anyone but Katara for as long as the stubborn mutt lived—Lady’s loyalty could be bought with a few sugar cubes and apple slices.

“Really? Is that any way to treat the only person who gives you treats besides Katara?” Sokka huffed, rubbing his arm. “She should put a muzzle on you.”

The mare squealed and lunged at him in hopes of getting another bite in, and Sokka had to leap out of reach before he was disemboweled.

He turned to give Yue an accusing look as the two of them scurried away. “You could’ve helped me out a little back there, Miss Protection Dire Wolf.”

Yue made a noise that sounded very much like, _“You’re an idiot if you think I’d get involved with that”_ and Sokka couldn’t really blame her.

He passed by much nicer horses, whom he greeted in turn, and eventually came across his father’s horse, a lithe chestnut stallion with long black hair and a white star on his forehead.

Red Ghost was the horse his father had ridden into battle during the war with the Greyjoys, and was missing an eye from when he’d been shot in the head with an arrow and had miraculously survived. The hair around his remaining eye and snout was slowly turning grey as the years went on, and the cold didn’t help his old joints, so for the most part he just took it easy. It wasn’t like Hakoda had the time to ride anyway…though Sokka wasn’t sure which horse his father planned on using now that he was leading the Starks into battle alongside the Targaryens.

He was in the middle of giving Red the neck rub of his life when a grumbling whinny came from the end of the aisle, sounding more like it came from a donkey than a horse, and Sokka grinned when a familiar head poked out to watch him expectantly.

“How’ve you been, buddy?” Sokka crooned as he jogged over with Yue at his heels, and was nearly knocked on his ass by a gigantic head trying to nuzzle him.

Grey Wind was the color of smoke and ash, with big black eyes that looked like they could stare straight into your soul and hooves the size of dinner plates. He was the biggest horse at the stable who didn’t till the fields; though his father was Red Ghost, his mother had been a gigantic black plow horse. The stallion was essentially a big puppy, albeit easily distracted by the ladies, and Sokka had raised him and trained him himself.

“I hear you’ve been getting yourself into trouble,” Sokka huffed and patted his neck. “Have you been giving the cook’s mare a hard time?”

Grey Wind snorted and tossed his head as if that was the most ridiculous accusation he’d ever heard, leaning down so he and Yue nose at each other.

The two of them used to be mortal enemies—which had been frustrating, since Painted Lady and Jet were thick as thieves—but once Grey Wind had gotten big enough to trample a Komodo rhino to a pancake, Yue had grudgingly surrendered the fight and assumed her usual role of mother hen.

“Alright, bud, we gotta get out of here quick before my dad finds out,” Sokka muttered, unlatching the stable door and throwing it open. “He’ll have a battalion sent after us in no time.”

Sokka did have a fantastic set of tack at his disposal—all blue leather and embellished with southern symbols—but it took a while to put on and Sokka didn’t have that kind of time. Instead, he threw a blanket over Grey Wind’s back and leapt up with the ease of a childhood spent in the saddle, grabbing a fistful of his mane and spurring him out of the stable with Yue bolting ahead to clear the way.

It felt like flying.

The wind whipped at his hair and Grey Wind’s muscles pumped beneath him like a force of nature, eating up the ground beneath his hooves. Despite his size, he was light-footed like a dancer, easily maneuvering among the parting crowds as Yue yapped at anyone in their path.

When Sokka was younger, it hadn’t been hard to pretend he was riding a dragon instead. Even now, he imagined gigantic, leathery wings sprouting from Grey Wind’s back so he could leap up over the walls of Winterfell and into the sunrise, away from everything and everyone so they could explore the great beyond.

Sokka had always wanted to travel the world. He wanted to spend his entire life going on adventures, making new friends from different cultures, and learning new things that no other Stark had ever learned before. He wanted to visit the ruins of the airbender temples and watch giant koi fish splash on Kyoshi island.

But…the Lord of Winterfell didn’t do any of those things.

Hakoda worked his life away at Winterfell, toiling from dawn to dusk filling out paperwork and being swamped by important officials—and when he did go on ambassador trips, the entire stay consisted of days-long meetings that left no time to explore the richness of foreign cities. Hell, he didn’t even have time to _ride his horse._

As heir, an adventurous lifestyle had just…never been a possibility for Sokka.

And now, more than ever, he wished things were different. He wished he was just some nobody peasant, some tradesman’s son who didn’t have to worry about political alliances and marrying someone he didn’t know or love.

They skidded around the last corner, and Sokka let out a groan when he saw that Yue had come to a stop.

Grey Wind whinnied and tossed his head when Sokka pulled him to a halt right in front of the gates, rearing up and eager to keep going, but their little adventure had come to an end before it’d even started:

Hakoda, Bato, and Katara and Jet were waiting for him.

His sister’s stern expression matched Hakoda’s a scary amount, and even though Sokka technically could spur Grey Wind forward and force them to either step out of the way or get run over, he would never disrespect his family in such a manner—his father specifically.

Disobeying Hakoda’s orders behind his back was all fine and dandy, but going against him directly— _especially_ in front of all these people—would be a death sentence.

“Word travels faster than I thought,” Sokka muttered beneath his breath, and Grey Wind sighed in agreement as Sokka nudged him forward until he and his family were in speaking range. 

“Sokka, get off that horse,” were the first words out of Hakoda’s mouth. “Right. Now.”

“I’m going to the Weirwood grove,” Sokka declared, dredging up the strength to keep his voice from wavering. “I need to clear my head.”

Horses could sense fear like sharks could sense blood in the water, and Grey Wind began to shift restlessly, his ears pinning back as he pawed at the ground. Sokka prayed his horse wouldn’t bolt and get him grounded for the rest of his life.

“What you really need is to go to your lessons. I thought I made it clear that you were forbidden from leaving Winterfell until the arrival of the Targaryens.”

“I need to exercise my horse.”

“I’ll get one of the stable hands to do it.”

“The stable hands don’t understand him.”

“Sokka Stark, if you keep spouting nonsense like that, I will make sure that horse is sold and shipped off to the North. Your wolf along with it.”

Sokka’s lips pulled back into a snarl, his fingers tightening in Grey Wind’s mane. The horse was trembling with anticipation. One touch of his heels and they’d be off like a shot. He could hide away in the Weirwood grove for a time until this all blew over, or he could ride the nearest fishing town and hop on the next boat north. No more titles. No more legacies. No more spirits-damned Targaryens.

The possibility was more tempting than he would ever care to admit, but he glanced over at Katara and saw how her expression had softened, how she was twisting her fingers in Jet’s black fur in the way she always did when she was nervous.

He couldn’t leave her behind. Hell, he couldn’t leave his father behind. His family. His people. They were all counting on him.

With a heavy sigh, he dismounted and handed Grey Wind off to an awaiting stable hand.

It was the gap-toothed boy from before, and he was grinning at him with such childish naïvety that Sokka tried his best not to spit in his face. Fucking snitch.

Hakoda made a move to step forward once Grey Wind was ushered away, but Yue planted herself between him and Sokka, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. A growl like rolling thunder rumbled deep in her throat, and Sokka took such delight in the unease on his father’s face that he _almost_ forgot to grab the dire wolf by the scruff and force her to stand down.

His father opened his mouth, most likely to start laying into him like nobody’s business, but Bato stepped in before they could embarrass themselves, “Let’s discuss this somewhere more private. Too many prying eyes here.”

Sokka spared a glance at everyone else and realized that…no one was going about their business at all. The vendors were pretending to reorganize their wares while staring, the children had stopped playing and were watching with rapt attention, and friends pretended to have conversations behind the shields of their hands as their gazes darted back and forth.

“Very well,” Hakoda agreed. “Let’s head to the war room.”

Sokka had half a mind to keep silent as his father and Bato brushed past him, grudgingly following as Katara and Jet brought up the rear.

The _last_ thing he wanted was to head back to that wretched room, the same room that Hakoda had delivered the news of the betrothal not a day ago, but he’d rather relive the terrible memory than have random people snooping around in his family’s business.

The war room was as cold and solemn as always, all of the torches sparking and sputtering like dying hearts.

The eclectic jumble of maps, letters, trading forms, and business agreements had been cleared off the table and back into the cabinets, while more chairs had been brought in from storage.

Gigantic Stark and Targaryen banners had been draped on either side of the room—Starks of the left, Targaryens on the right, and Sokka couldn’t help but recall his dream as he came face-to-face with the snarling three-headed dragon. Its white eyes bored into him as he passed.

Hakoda took his seat at the head of the table, with Katara and Bato joining him not long after, but Sokka was too jittery to even _think_ of finding a chair for himself.

Jet and Yue went to their usual corner, both looking kind of miffed that their beds and toys had been moved out for the time being, and curled up like a furry Yin-Yang, with Jet’s black pelt standing out starkly against Yue’s white.

“Sokka, you’ll wear a path in the floor if you keep pacing like that,” Katara said. “Come on, have a seat.”

“I can’t. Let me think.”

“You’ve had all night to think,” Hakoda pointed out. “Now’s the time to talk. I want to help you with this in any way I can.”

Sokka stopped in his tracks, letting out a ragged breath as his hands balled into fists. He looked up at the Targaryen banner before him and his face twisted. He wanted nothing more than to tear it down and rip it to pieces.

“Sokka. Please.”

There was no use in arguing, so Sokka grudgingly took a seat next to Katara, refusing to meet everyone’s expectant gazes. The silence was long and stilted. A battle of Stark stubbornness.

Hakoda cleared his throat multiple times and Katara’s foot was tapping beneath the table, but Sokka kept his gaze on his lap and sealed his lips. He’d spent a good chunk of his life being told to be respectful by keeping his mouth shut, and he felt like now would be the best time to start obeying.

Hakoda was the first to crack, and Sokka tried his best not to smirk as his father finally prompted, “So?”

“So, what?”

“You tried to leave today.”

“I did. You saw it, Bato saw it, Katara saw it—everyone saw it. Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re here?”

“May I ask why?”

“You _know_ why.”

Hakoda sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and slumping in his chair. “My apologies, I phrased that wrong. I…I just want to know where you were going.”

Sokka rolled his eyes. “Good spirits, are you serious? I already told you I was going to the Weirwood grove! Where _else_?”

Hakoda and Bato exchanged a look, seemed to have a silent argument between them, before Hakoda finally admitted. “We… _I_ was worried you were going to try to leave. Permanently.”

“What?!” Sokka spluttered, a jolt of shocked horror going up his spine. “And go where?”

“North.”

“But…but I didn’t have anything packed—”

_How had his father known? How could he have possibly known?_

“A cunning boy with the right family name who can hunt, cook, and wield a sword can do amazing things on his own. Especially if he’s got his horse and a dire wolf at his side.”

Sokka opened his mouth to retort, to deny that he’d even considered doing such a thing, but nothing came out. He’d thought he’d been good at keeping his temptations to himself. He’d thought his fantasies of roaming the world were fine as long as he never spoke of them aloud.

When he finally managed to wrangle a hold of his vocal cords, he insisted, “I was just going to the Weirwood grove, I swear! I would _never_ —”

“I know. It’s alright.” His father sounded exhausted. “ _But_ …”

Sokka rolled his eyes and slumped further in his seat. Naturally there was a ‘but.’

“…you still have duties that _must_ be put first. Your lessons—”

“Like what, sitting around to learn about the firebending psychopath family that my future husband comes from? I’ll pass.”

“—and wedding preparations as well.”

“What? Wedding preparations?” Sokka prompted, bristling. This whole conversation was going south faster than he could comprehend. “I thought we had other people do that for us!”

“You’re one of the grooms, bozo!” Katara pointed out, and for spirits’ sake why could she never keep things to _herself_ — “There are _a ton_ of traditions you have to uphold.”

“I’m not making him an engagement necklace, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sokka hissed, and Katara seemed taken aback by the way his lips curled in disgust.

Bato leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “You…do understand he’s taking the name Stark, right? He’s becoming a part of a southern waterbender House. One of us.”

“He’ll _never_ be one of us,” Sokka snarled as he jabbed an accusing finger at the black and red banners behind him. “He’s a _Targaryen_ —he’ll _always_ be a Targaryen, no matter how many titles he forsakes. He doesn’t deserve an engagement necklace.”

“How do you know that?” Katara prompted. She was twirling one of her hair loopy-things around her finger nervously. “Both of you are probably in the same boat right now! I bet he doesn’t want this any more than you do.”

“Oh, I bet he wants whatever his sick, twisted demon of a father wants!” Sokka roared despite everyone else desperately shushing him. Lower, he said, “But it doesn’t matter, because once we’re married and you and the Targaryens leave, I’m not going to have _anything_ to do with him.”

“That’s fine, but for now you don’t have a choice. Prince Zuko has lessons too…lessons he probably attends.” Hakoda cast Sokka a sideways glare. “He’ll know if you’re disrespecting him.”

“And then he’ll tell his father,” Bato finished.

“So you’re saying I have to go the whole nine yards for a guy whose family threatened to massacre my whole family?” Sokka demanded. “I have to give him gifts and do all these rituals for someone who would love nothing more than to see my entire culture _eradicated?_ ”

“Yes, because if you don’t, it will jeopardize the alliance,” Hakoda deadpanned. “Tomorrow, I’m sending you and an escort out of Winterfell so you can select the horse that you will gift to your betrothed as custom—”

“But—!”

“ _Then,_ you will begin working on the engagement necklace. The Targaryens are coming in a few days…I apologize for the time constraints, but as long as you don’t show them any of your other work, they can just assume you’re a bad carver. It’s the thought that counts, anyway.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Bato sighed. “But hey, since this is a short-notice betrothal and all, at least you don’t have to go out and search for the flowers he likes the most or spend hours trying to catch his top five favorite fish.”

“I’ve had enough of this!” Sokka spat, slamming his hands on the table. “I’m going to bed. Come on, Yue.”

“It’s noon.” Katara rose to her feet as the dire wolf extracted herself from her sibling pile and trotted over with a yawn. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I need to think! None of you will ever let me think and I’m fucking _sick of it!_ Why do you think I always go to the Weirwood grove to clear my head? All of you are absolutely suffocating.”

“Stop acting childish,” Hakoda said gruffly. “There’s a difference between thinking and being constantly lost in your own daydreams. This is real life. With _real_ lives at stake.”

Sokka was halfway to the doors when they slammed open of their own accord, and he staggered back as the postmaster—with a satchel full of letters and a messenger hawk balanced on his shoulder—hurried inside.

“So sorry to interrupt you m’lords.” He nodded to Katara. “M’lady. But we just received word from the Targaryens.”

Sokka realized that the hawk was adorned with red and gold, the cannister to hold the scroll emblazoned with the Targaryen dragon.

Hakoda rose from his seat, his face going ashen, and waved the postmaster inside.

There were a ton of other letters addressed to the Lord of Winterfell, at least twelve all dumped unceremoniously onto the table, while the scroll from the hawk was placed gingerly into Hakoda’s trembling palm.

Sokka’s browed furrowed when he looked closer at the label on one of the letters, stamped with the seal of House Glover: _Urgent. Serial grave robber has been stealing corpses._

His curiosity evaporated as quickly as it had come when the postmaster rummaged around in his satchel and produced two more letters, which he presented to Sokka and Katara: “These are for you both, from the Last Hearth.”

“Gran Gran?” Katara asked, snatching her letter out of the postmaster’s hands as Sokka did the same. “At House Umber’s stronghold?”

“No, it’s from the _other_ Last Hearth,” Sokka said sarcastically, though there was a pit of nervousness coiling in his gut.

What if something had happened? What if the Targaryens had attacked House Umber, where Gran Gran was currently visiting?

It would’ve been pretty ironic; Gran Gran had left Winterfell a week ago to stay with an old friend so she _wouldn’t_ have to deal with the Targaryens.

When asked how they’d explain things to the diplomats who wanted to meet her, she’d simply waved them off with a huffed, “Tell them I died.”

“They’re not sure about the tides yet, but as of right now the winds are with the Targaryens,” Hakoda announced with a sigh, chucking the scroll onto the heap of other letters that had been delivered to him. He turned to Bato and asked, “Do you think we could speed up those grain orders…?”

Sokka was able to slip out while everyone was distracted, hurrying out of the war room with Yue close behind and the letter clenched in a determined fist.

It had snowed sometime during the meeting, and the whole world was covered in a dainty dusting of pearly white, like sugar on lemon cakes. It would be churned into a muddy mess by the time the day was over, but the sight was still beautiful, even if Sokka was used to seeing it all of his life.

_I should just head to the stables. They wouldn’t be able to catch me if I went now,_ Sokka thought.

_But where to?_ a voice in his head snarled. _The Weirwood grove? No. You’d have to go further; you’ve already tested your father’s patience too much today. If you went now, you’d have to be halfway to the northern continents by nightfall._

He took a few tentative steps toward the stables, worrying his lip between his teeth.

His life stretched out before him like a crossroads, like a man on his deathbed recalling everything he’d ever done.

Two paths. Two destinies.

Would he listen to his father and spend the rest of his miserable existence yearning for something more, shackled to Winterfell and his new husband?

Or would he go off on his own, pursuing a life of learning and adventure with his wolf and his horse at his side…and in the process leave his family and his people to die?

Sokka only hesitated for a few moments before turning on his heel and heading back to his room. He fully intended to sleep and sulk for the rest of the night, but he knew in his heart that this was the right choice.

If he left, he’d never be able to forgive himself.

Yue seemed to sense his distress, brushing up against his legs with a whine and licking his hand, and Sokka smiled down at her.

“You know, Yue, for a second there I was considering ruining everyone’s life.”

They walked together in easy, companionable silence until they reached the dining hall and Yue began barking her head off, shattering the moment and giving Sokka heebie-jeebies as she scratched at the hardwood doors with her claws.

It was only then that Sokka realized he was starving, too.

He didn’t want to be rude and bother the cooks when it was his fault that he’d missed breakfast in the first place, and he had some seal jerky and nuts leftover in his room, but it wouldn’t be fair to make Yue go hungry until lunch.

With that in mind, he opened the door for her and shooed her away when she tried to wait for him; she didn’t need him to show her the way to the kitchens to be fed her share.

“It’s fine, you go ahead,” he told her when she remained stubbornly put. “You can meet me back in my room when you’re done, but if you want you can take the rest of the day off. It’s not like I’m going to be doing much.”

Yue glared at him like a scorned lover whose brunch plans had just been canceled, before disappearing into the empty dining hall. Sokka waited for the clicking of her claws against stone to fade before closing the door and continuing on his way.

Spurred by his empty stomach, Sokka spent the rest of his trip to his room brushing past anyone who tried to speak to him; many were mentioning the confrontation with his father at the gates—which he did _not_ want to talk about—and though the news about his betrothal wasn’t officially “out” yet, Sokka had a feeling that everyone knew already

He only allowed himself breathe once he’d stumbled into his room and locked the door behind him, slumping against the wall with a groan. A headache was coming on, he was sure of it, but there was no way he was stepping out of his room again to ask the medicine man for something to help.

_What the hell is up with everyone lately?_ Sokka thought when he realized the servants had built up the fire again while he was gone. _It’s still summer! Do they want to cook me alive?_

He had to shuck off his cloak and toss it onto his bed before he could start sweating like a pig, and shuffled over to his desk so he could fetch his letter opener: a deformed seal bone knife he’d carved when he was ten.

The last letter he’d read had been bloody and spoke of the slaughter of an entire House, so he was thankful when he was greeted by two pages of his grandmother’s looping scrawl, dated from a few days ago.

No rush, no danger.

_My sweet Sokka,_

_I miss you and Katara dearly. I miss_ Winterfell _dearly._

_The Last Hearth is horrifically cold!_

_I knew as well as anyone that it was the southernmost stronghold of any House…you know, the reason why they call it “the last hearth” and all, but I didn’t think it would be this bad! Snowstorms every night; everyone must be in their homes by 6:30 or risk freezing to death, far too extreme for these old bones!_

_But I’ve been having a merry time with the Umbers—and perhaps have been drinking more than I should—so I suppose it’s been bearable._

_The main reason why I’m sending you this, though, is because I just received a letter from your father bearing terrible news. I can only hope that within the span of me writing this and you receiving it that my son has explained the circumstances to you and Katara._

_If you have no idea what I’m talking about, stop reading right now and go ask him. In the event that he refuses, show him this letter. Hopefully he will understand that I WILL SMACK HIM UPSIDE THE HEAD when I return if he doesn’t comply._

Sokka smiled softly. Leave it to Gran Gran to reprimand the most powerful man in the South Pole.

She’d scribbled a little line between the first few paragraphs and the rest of the letter, with bold words declaring that he could continue reading once he had a hold of the situation:

_Like with you, your father had originally told me that the arrival of House Targaryens was for strictly diplomatic purposes. I suppose that wasn’t technically a lie, but boy was I mad when I received word that you were to be wed so some Targaryen ash maker._

_I’m sorry that I won’t be attending your wedding, but I really CAN’T STAND those people and wouldn’t want to jeopardize the alliance._

_You’re too good for a boy like that. You deserve a nice, hardy southern boy or girl of your choosing, not some dainty firebender piss baby from the North whose father is throwing the world’s largest temper tantrum._

_I was unhappy with my betrothal too, you know._

_When I was of House Cerwyn in the North, I was arranged to marry some pompous fellow by the name of Pakku…gosh I don’t even remember the name of his House. How terrible is that? He was a very…traditional man, and was stifling to be around, so I fled to the South, met a hunky Stark boy, and the rest is history._

_Of course, you don’t have such luxuries._

_In the North, they didn’t allow women to become the heads of Houses, and I was the eighth child and the last of five daughters; my abandoning my House was of no consequence._

_You, however, are the heir to House Stark. And there are many lives at stake._

_You probably feel trapped, as I did. You probably feel angry and upset—at your father, at House Targaryen, at your betrothed. You probably feel like there’s only one way for you to be happy: to get out._

_Do not despair, for the South remembers. The South does not forgive._

_You are the most intelligent boy I have ever met, and your fiery will could overpower even the will of a Targaryen on the war path. You alone are stronger than their entire dynasty._

_Power resides where men believe it resides. It’s a trick. A shadow on the wall. And a very small man can cast a very large shadow._

_The dragons of myth may breathe fire, but a wolf has teeth. A wolf is real._

_Much Love,_

_Gran Gran_

Sokka could feel his resolve hardening, and he folded up the piece of paper and tucked it into one of the corners of his desk. He had a feeling he’d need it to refer back to it later in order to bolster his strength.

He was just about to hunt around for his stash of seal jerky when he heard scratching on his door, and he rose to his feet so he could let Yue in.

Needless to say, he thought it was some kind of prank when Jet trotted inside with Katara following close behind.

Jet? Scratching on his door to imitate Yue, since he knew Sokka wouldn’t have let them in otherwise? What was this evil mastermind up to?

The dire wolf leapt into Sokka’s bed and curled up among the pillows, getting black hair everywhere, and if he wished with all his might that he could’ve had the mutt skinned and stretched into a carpet…or perhaps made into a nice pelt.

“What are you doing here, Katara?” Sokka demanded, still holding the door ajar like some shell-shocked servant.

“Checking up on you.” Katara turned in a slow circle, studying Sokka’s room as if it were the first time…despite how she was just two doors down. “Why else?”

“You came here to make sure I hadn’t left, didn’t you?”

“I did not!”

Sokka gave her a withering look.

“Okay, maybe I did, but I also came in to check on you.”

“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m kind of not in the mood to be scolded like how you did in the war room,” Sokka snapped, finally dredging up the brain capacity to slam the door shut. “It’s not fun to be treated like a kid by your little sister in front of your dad and his right-hand man.”

“I know, and I’m really, really sorry,” Katara apologized with a sheepish dip of her head. “Sometimes I just want to impress dad, you know? By being the mature one. I’m working on trying to stop.”

Sokka was getting whiplash, and he had to lean on one of the bedposts to steady himself.

Jet’s sinister intelligence. Katara apologizing of her own free will for being bossy.

What was next? A dragon swooping in from the sky?

Katara sat down at the edge of his bed, carding her fingers through Jet’s fur. “You know…I…I also wanted to…thank you.”

“Thank me?” Sokka scoffed. “For what?”

“Doing this. You…you could’ve put up a bigger fight. You could’ve demanded that I marry Zuko.” Katara’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “I…I know you don’t really want to be Lord of Winterfell, and it would’ve been easy for you to just forsake your claim so I’d have to go in your stead.”

“That wouldn’t have been the right thing.” Sokka managed a smirk as he sat down next to her. “House Stark means too much to me, and I would never, _ever_ let some stupid Targaryen guy marry my sister. Besides…I…actually, never mind.”

“Well now you gotta tell me,” Katara laughed. “Come on, spill.”

“Nah, it’s stupid.”

“Come on.” She aimed a bruising jab at his ribs with her elbow, and he shoved her away with a huff. “ _Pleeeeease?_ ”

“Alright, alright _fine_.” Sokka rolled his eyes but was smiling all the same. “I…I used to want to be a part of House Targaryen when I was younger.”

There was a long pause.

“Spirits, Sokka, I already _knew_ that!” Katara snapped, running a hand down her face. “You were literally obsessed with them—every other boy in Winterfell drew pictures of wolves and begged their fathers to get carved wolf toys, while you were always cavorting around with your dragons.”

“Hey!”

“I’m not saying it’s a _bad_ thing!” Katara insisted, her expression turning wistful. “All the stories Gran Gran used to tell us made them seem pretty cool. They sounded…invincible.”

“Nah, it’s not about their army or their culture or anything. I just wanted to ride on a dragon. The dragons were the best part, hands down.”

“Yeah.” Katara wiped a bead of sweat off of her brow, casting a furtive glance at the roaring fire before shucking off her cloak. “I still remember some of their names. There was Balerion and…Sunfyre…oh, and Vhagar and…agh, what’s her name...the one who could melt stone with her breath.”

“Meraxes,” Sokka finished. “She always scared me the most. Gran Gran said the shadows cast by her wings could plunge entire cities into shadow and a snap of her tail could topple mountains. I was always afraid she’d rise from the dead and come to Winterfell one day.”

“A bit of common sense would’ve done us some good when we were kids. It was stupid of us to ever be afraid of fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales?!” Sokka demanded. “Come on, Katara; there are huge badger moles that earthbend, flying bison that used to airbend, and you can’t believe in a winged lizard that could firebend?”

“I’m just saying! All those depictions of dragons look an awful lot like eel hounds,” Katara pointed out despite her brother’s indignant grumble. “They might’ve just been a subspecies.”

“What about their fire breath, huh? How do you think they managed that?”

“They were ridden by firebenders, dipshit. Do the math.”

“Then where did the firebenders learn how to bend, if not from the dragons?”

“From the sun, probably! Just like waterbenders learned from the moon.”

“Interesting…” Sokka trailed off, and Katara punched his arm. “What? Your theories are…thought-provoking, but…not true. At all.”

“Oh, really?” Katara asked in mock surprise, her hand flying to her mouth with sarcastic dramatism. “Mighty dragon master, tell me the truth! I wish to be enlightened!”

“Hey, enough of that! First of all, dragons didn’t look _anything_ like eel hounds.”

“How do _you_ know? You magically travel back in time?”

“I mean, I guess I did…in a way. Kind of. I see them all the time in the Weirwood grove.”

Katara seemed like she was trying to keep composed and unimpressed, but there was no mistaking the spark of curiosity in her eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Sokka traced his fingertips over his headboard, which was intricately carved with a scene of wolves on the hunt. “They’re bigger than any animal I’ve ever seen.”

“I bet,” Katara snorted.

“It’s true! Their wings are as long as the walls of Winterfell are tall, and they’re covered from head to toe in leathery skin and scales that look like feathers. They’re…kind of like birds, actually; they don’t have front legs like eel hounds do. I…kind of wish I could study them, you know? And learn more.”

“Hey, maybe you can ask Zuko when he gets here. He probably knows all about that kind of stuff.”

Sokka’s face expression softened somewhat. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

He recalled his fantasies of adventure, his longing to travel the world and learn anything about everything there was to know about.

Zuko would have to be the gateway to his adventure, he supposed—whether it be grudgingly asking him about his family’s history or going on visits to Capitol City. It wasn’t what Sokka had wanted, but it would have to be enough.

With a groan, he hauled himself out of bed and snatched up his cloak.

“Where are you going?” Katara asked, and Jet perked up from the blankets. “I’d kind of assumed you were going to stay in bed for the rest of the day.”

“You were right. I have a lot to do,” Sokka stated firmly as he threw the cloak over his shoulders and fastened the straps around his body. “How long until the Targaryens arrive again?”

“Father said they’d be here in three to four days. Maybe five, depending on the tides.”

“Great. I have five days to get my shit together.” Sokka threw on his gloves, his expression set in stone as he turned back to Katara. “I’m going to uphold all the traditions and learn every single thing there is to know about House Targaryen.”

“That’s fantastic, Sokka!” Katara rose to her feet with a smile, clapping her hands together. “I’m sure Zuko will really appreciate it.”

“It’s not for him,” Sokka growled. “It’s for dad. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to him. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to House Stark.”

Sokka buckled his scabbard and slid his sword into its sheath, locking eyes with himself in the mirror. “The Targaryens want a wedding? I’ll give them a fucking wedding.”

_(^The above image was contributed by the lovely julchenawesome on Tumblr!! Go drop a follow!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like it! I would REALLY appreciate it if you left comments/kudos (I love hearing about all of your theories and your favorite parts!) because it helps motivate me to write the next chapter!
> 
> Also, I have a question: are all of you able to see the art at the end of the chapter? I'm worried that I put in the code wrong and it's not showing up. 
> 
> Anyway, buckle up, because next chapter is the moment you've all been waiting forrrrrr!!!!!


	4. A Clash of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension boils over as the Targaryens arrive at Winterfell. Zuko and Sokka's first meeting doesn't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Racism, mentions of rape

**IV.**

**A CLASH OF KINGS**

It was a few days later when they finally reached the docks.

Zuko was ordered to be dressed in his best finery, like a sacrificial lamb being dolled up for slaughter.

His hair was wrestled into a bun and crowned with a headpiece shaped like a lick of flame, and he was draped in crimson and mahogany silks that were embroidered with dragons and lotuses in golden thread. He was trussed and squeezed and grappled into this outfit, and by the time he was ready, he could hardly breathe without it hurting him.

It also didn’t help that it wasn’t designed for a trip through the South Pole.

“You look like an overdressed peacock,” Azula deadpanned as she nudged her Komodo rhino up next to Zuko’s as they waited to disembark. “I bet father’s trying to distract them from your face.”

“That’s—" Zuko wheezed, clutching his stomach where the straps were tied too tightly. “—not true!”

Even as he said this, he still turned his head away to hide his scar from his sister’s gaze. Azula always lied, Zuko wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise, but during the few instances she didn’t, it was because she was the only one mean enough to tell the truth.

“Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps!” Azula punched Zuko’s arm so hard it made him wince. “I bet Sokka is way uglier than you’ll ever be. You’ll be perfect for each other; the world’s ugliest couple!”

“Shut up, or I swear to Agni I’ll—”

The tension crackling between them fizzled out just as quickly as it had come when Uncle Iroh’s Komodo rhino lumbered up beside them. Zuko was so used to seeing his uncle dressed casually that it took him by surprise to find Iroh swathed in traditional Targaryen garb; it made him look regal, like he could’ve been a general during the time of Sozin the Conqueror.

“We should be leaving shortly,” Iroh explained to them, either unaware of the previous squabble or simply choosing to ignore it. “They’re loading up the last of Zuko’s luggage as we speak.”

“They…shouldn’t even bother. Half of it is clothes that…I’ll never wear in this…stupid climate.”

Spirits, he couldn’t even get through a full sentence without having to gasp for air. Perhaps his father had intended it this way: if he couldn’t speak, there was no possible chance of him running his mouth.

“Don’t worry about the cold! You can always ask to borrow a fur cloak from one of your new barbarian friends,” Azula sneered, miming throwing a cloak around her shoulders. “Even then, you won’t really be going outside that much, right? You’ll be too busy keeping your husband’s bed warm.”

Had Uncle Iroh not been there and had his robes not been strangling him, Zuko would’ve leapt at her.

“Azula, this is _not_ the time,” Iroh chastised despite the princess’s eye roll. “We must all be on our best behavior today. The Starks are a very honorable people, and we must not disrespect them under their own roof.”

“What does it matter?” Azula prompted. “We’re the ones with the power here. If the Starks don’t like us, then they should expect Greyjoy banners to be flying at Winterfell by morning.”

Iroh pursed his lips and shook his head in that way he always did when he was disappointed, and Zuko wondered why he even bothered anymore; no amount of lip-pursing and head-shaking would make Azula change her attitude.

“All set!” a voice echoed from behind them, resounding against the steel walls of the ship, and no sooner had the words finished echoing did the hatch screech open like a gaping mouth prying itself apart.

A blast of South Pole wind slammed into everyone with a deafening howl, nearly shoving Zuko off of his mount, and he could barely hear his father—who’d found his way to the front of the procession—give the order to move out.

“Home sweet home, Zuzu,” Azula chuckled as their Komodo rhinos lurched forward and into the snowy wastes.

The harbor was a few miles out from Winterfell, rickety and ice-crusted and very unlike the gleaming shipyards by Capital City. Most of the boats docked there were fishing boats, crowded with hand-woven nets and flying Stark banners, and Zuko’s saliva turned to ashes in his mouth as the snarling dire wolf sigil snapped and shivered in the wind.

Waves crashed against the snowy banks with enough force to make the pier shiver under their feet, and the frothing, near-black water looked like it concealed many terrifying creatures within its depths. Zuko wondered how long it would take for someone to freeze to death if they had the misfortune of falling in.

The guards had cleared a path for them beforehand to make sure they could get by without the locals swarming them, and a crowd had clustered on either side of the barricade of soldiers, gawking at the Targaryen procession like they were animals doing tricks at a circus, and Zuko couldn’t help but stare right back at them.

They were so…different…than people from firebender Houses. Their skin was much darker and their hair was worn long and braided back with colorful beads; some even had hair that was shorn close to their scalp on either side, and even though Zuko knew that the southerners were oblivious to the northern implications of such a close shave, it was still uncomfortable to look at. All of them had thick animal furs slung over their shoulders over their blue and white parkas, and though Zuko could catch some of the noblemen snickering and making jokes about savagery, he couldn’t help but feel jealous as the wind buffeted them relentlessly.

Other banners were flying, too, and Zuko was glad that he’d doubled down on his studies and was able to recognize every single one of them: the bear of House Mormont, the iron fist of House Glover, the four chains of House Umber. Their colorful patterns were the only pops of color among the bleached and faded landscape, and Zuko wondered how anyone could possibly love a land that was so devoid of color.

The trip only got worse once they’d left the docks behind them and were trudging across the ice, the only guide being a path beaten into the snow by countless milling feet.

 _What happens if it snows overnight?_ Zuko thought. _How would anyone know where they’re going?_

The Komodo rhinos struggled and were fearful of this foreign, freezing substance that crunched underfoot, and that only served to slow them down…which was a feat, considering how slow they’d been beforehand.

“Ugh, why can’t we get one of those?” Azula demanded, and Zuko turned his head to watch a horse-drawn sled whip past loaded with crates full of imported vegetables, no doubt for the upcoming month of feasting. “At least the Starks know more than us about _something_.”

“Did you see that?” Zuko asked his uncle, ignoring Azula’s comment. He could hardly get enough air out to raised his voice over the wind. “That animal was unlike anything I’ve ever seen! It didn’t look anything like an ostrich horse!”

Uncle Iroh grinned at him and nodded. “They are magnificent creatures. When we get to Winterfell, we must visit the stables; they have quite a fantastic variety.”

“Do…do you think I’ll be able to ride one? At least once? Or…or maybe have my own?”

“Why not?” Iroh laughed, leaning out of his saddle to nudge Zuko with his elbow. “You’re going to be one of the Lords of Winterfell soon; you can have as many horses as your heart desires.”

Zuko’s face fell, and he turned his head away to stare at his hands clenched around the reigns. He hadn’t been provided with gloves, and his fingers were starting to go pink. Great. He was going to get frostbite and die from asphyxiation at the same time.

“Aw Zuzu, perk up!” Azula crooned. “We all know your _lovely_ husband will spoil you rotten! Maybe he’ll give you your own wolfie, too, if you spread your legs wide enough.”

Zuko hurled a ball of flame at her with a roar, his lack of breath making his aim terrible and his fire weak, and Azula cackled as she leaned out of the way easily. He would’ve tackled her into the snow and strangled her had he not felt his uncle’s hand seizing his arm.

“Enough! Azula, distance yourself if you cannot behave!” Iroh demanded.

“But I’m just telling the truth!” Azula spat, her eyes glinting like obsidian shards. “It’s not my fault that my sniveling big brother can’t handle it!”

“Why, you little—"

“Both of you, stop acting like children! Separate at once!”

“Whatever you say, uncle,” Azula scoffed, spurring her rhino to lumber ahead so she could join their father—who would no doubt have taken her side if he’d witnessed the confrontation—and Zuko was glad to see her disappear around the people in front of them.

Once he was sure she was gone, he finally allowed his face to crumple.

“It’ll be okay, Zuko,” Iroh murmured. “Do you not trust me? I’ve told you a thousand times over that Sokka is a very sweet boy, very polite. You needn’t keep worrying about him.”

“But…” Zuko shook his head and bared his teeth to keep his voice from breaking. “I don’t want to be his bed slave. I’m not some whore to be bought and sold.”

“This is an arranged marriage, not some deal at a brothel; no one said you were going to be his bed slave. You don’t even have to sleep with him after your wedding night, if you don’t want to—he will surely understand. Besides, you’re going to have a lot of work to do as the Lord of Winterfell once everyone leaves; your husband will need your help and knowledge.”

Zuko didn’t believe him, but forced a smile anyway. “Promise me you’ll visit?”

“I promise. Once Ba Sing Se falls, I will visit you _every month_ if you want me to.”

“That would be nice.”

“And Zuko…” Iroh trailed off and looked around, making sure no one was in earshot before lowering his voice. “If you find that Sokka is not the boy I thought I knew—if he beats you or forces you to bed or calls you terrible names—I want you to send word to me and escape to the old house on Ember Island. Hide there until the war ends, and then I will take you back with me.”

“Are you serious?” Zuko asked, a grin breaking out over his face as he sat up straighter in his saddle. “You’d really do that?”

“Yes, but promise me, Zuko, that you’ll _only_ resort to that if you are well and truly in a cruel situation…both of us could be killed if we’re caught, and it will put everyone in House Stark’s lives at stake. You don’t want blood on your hands.”

Zuko’s grin faded somewhat, but he still pursed his lips and nodded.

 _At least you know you have a way out,_ he thought, and that inkling of hope was the only thing keeping him from leaping off of his rhino and running off into the tundra so he could freeze to death in peace.

The next half hour was spent getting used to both the bitter cold and not being able to catch his breath, and by the time he _finally_ caught a glimpse of Winterfell looming up in the distance, he was utterly miserable.

Horns sounded as they approached, low and loud like the howl of a wolf as to alert the inhabitants of their arrival, and Zuko was pretty sure he heard one of the guards on the battlements shout, “Targaryens!” It didn’t sound like the announcement of a diplomatic envoy…it sounded like a warning of an approaching army.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Iroh asked. “My, that craftsmanship never fails to amaze me.”

Zuko was panting open-mouthed at that point like a fucking dog, and he tried his best to nod in agreement. Winterfell’s walls reached up higher than a boat’s mast was tall, made entirely of glittering ice that had been sculpted into gorgeous shapes of leaping wolves, galloping horses, and trees with ghastly faces. Banners had been draped over the sides, both Stark and Targaryen, that waved hypnotically in the wind. At first, Zuko thought the banners were just for decoration, but when a strong gust blew one of the Targaryen flags aside slightly, he caught a glimpse of an icy wolf with its jaws fastened around the neck of a dragon. His eyes darted around, wondering if he was the only one who’d noticed, but everyone else was too busy chattering excitedly amongst themselves to pay attention.

Despite how ridiculous it sounded, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a trap. Winterfell’s only weakness had been dragons, and now that all the dragons were dead, it was impenetrable. It would be very, very easy for the guards on the battlements to open fire upon them and gun them down where they stood, leaving their bodies to be lost in the snow. House Tully had had walls that were twice as high and commanded an army of three times as many men, but the Tullys were not hungry like House Stark was.

His uncle nudged him, jolting him out of his worried thoughts, and pointed to the west, “See? There’s the Weirwood grove.”

He followed where Iroh was pointing and stiffened in shock when he realized _holy shit, there’s literally a forest out here._ It was a little ways away from Winterfell and larger than Zuko had expected; he’d always imagined a small copse of ten or twelve trees, but not a whole forest! The leaves were the same color as the Targaryen sigil, and there were swirling patterns on the bark that looked like hundreds of vigilant eyes.

“Greetings, Firelord Targaryen! Welcome to Winterfell!” one of the guards called down to Ozai once they’d reached the doors. Zuko’s father rumbled a reply that he couldn’t make out the words to, but it must’ve been the right thing to say as the doors swung open with a low groan, seemingly of their own accord.

The inside of Winterfell was just as austere and intimidating as the outside, almost prison-like in design. Stone and wood buildings huddled beside one another—a cluster of shops, armories, and homes all leading up to the gigantic fortress that was the home of the Starks.

The House banners were everywhere, and though the main pigments of the South Pole were blue and white, the Starks had had the courtesy of decorating their whole stronghold with red and gold to commemorate their arrival—garlands of roses, tulips, and carnations; beautifully woven banners and tapestries; and various depictions of dragons and wolves flanking each other in solidarity. Zuko considered himself tired of red and gold—which were so abundant in Capital City they were sickening—but for some reason they looked a lot more beautiful in Winterfell.

Zuko nearly toppled out of his seat when his Komodo rhino came to an abrupt stop, and his heart sank when he realized everyone around him was dismounting, allowing the awaiting Stark men to take their steeds and belongings. Zuko wondered if they were going to try to squeeze the Komodo rhinos into horse stalls or if they’d built a makeshift pen to keep all of them in.

He swung himself out of the saddle with about as much finesse as a toddler falling off of a wooden rocking horse, landing heavily on his feet and needing his uncle to steady him before he toppled over into the muddy, churned-up snow. That action alone knocked all the breath out of him, and he had to spend a good, long moment forcing air in and out until he stopped feeling like he was suffocating. 

Before he could even think about doing anything, his attendants were upon him like buzzards fighting over a rotting carcass, pulling and prodding and tugging at him. Hairs that had been knocked loose by the wind were tucked back into place, wrinkles were smoothed flat, and his robes were fanned out behind him like the trail of a wedding gown.

At least…Zuko hoped it wasn’t his wedding gown; his father hadn’t told him when exactly the wedding would be, and he feared he’d die of shock if he turned a corner and was suddenly being led down the aisle.

“Could you please loosen things up a bit?” Zuko managed to stutter out to one of the attendants. “I…I can’t breathe.”

The woman threw back her head and laughed as if he’d told a joke, patting his shoulder with a knowing smile before hurrying away with the rest of her posse and disappearing into the milling crowd of Targaryen procession.

Zuko turned to Iroh, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate: “I think I might faint.”

“What are you looking at me for?” his uncle huffed, folding his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t touch your outfit with a ten-foot pole! Too many bits and baubles that might get ruffled out of place.”

“ _Please._ Just the strap around my waist or around my chest, I really can’t breathe—”

“Zuko!”

Zuko’s spine snapped straight as his father approached with Azula at his side, both of them looking like the stern portraits hanging up in the Great Hall, and he tried his best to school his features so he could match them. Ozai didn’t bother to fill him in on anything, simply clamped a hand onto his shoulder and steered him in the direction he wanted him to go, and Zuko followed knowing that resistance was futile. He felt like a pig being led to the butcher block: smart enough to know he was in danger but not strong enough to fight back against it.

He withered under the scrutiny of the gathering crowd, a host of northerners with sharp eyes and hard faces who didn’t look friendly in the slightest, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if they could get away with it, they would kill Zuko and his entire family right now without hesitation. Perhaps they’d get the chance once Zuko was alone here; he couldn’t cower by his husband’s side forever, and even then, he wasn’t sure if Sokka would even be willing to protect him in the first place.

“Lord Stark!” Ozai’s voice rose up above the babble of voices, harsh like the glare of noon and reverberating against the walls of Winterfell. The entire courtyard went silent. “I offer my son, Zuko Targaryen—sixth of his name.”

Zuko feared his heart would burst out of his chest and run away as his father shoved him forward, trying his best not to let his jaw drop as he came face-to-face with Hakoda Stark. He was every bit as intimidating as he’d been in the book, with striking blue eyes and a gigantic brown pelt slung over his shoulders, and had it not been for Ozai’s piercing gaze boring into him, Zuko would’ve forgotten to bow.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Stark,” he managed to say—good spirits just uttering those words made him feel faint, though the head rush from coming up from his waist-low bow probably didn’t help either.

Hakoda didn’t smile at him, and he wondered if he was supposed to smile back anyway or to just leave it be. Did southerners consider smiling during a greeting rude? He knew every single vassal of House Stark and could name every one of their primary dishes but could not for the life of him remember common courtesy.

“Your scar is bigger than I thought it would be,” were the first words out of Hakoda’s mouth, and Zuko wished he could wither up and die as his hand instinctively flew up to cover it shamefully. He heard Azula smother a laugh from behind him. “Can you still see?”

“I…I can, Lord Stark.” Zuko fought to keep the waver out of his voice. “The sight isn’t as good, but I can still see out of it.”

By “isn’t as good,” Zuko really meant “the world is a mass of color and vague shapes,” but Hakoda didn’t need to know that, and he assumed that Ozai didn’t want him to say so, either.

“And you got it in a training accident?” Hakoda asked.

Zuko swallowed hard and didn’t dare glance at his father. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I…I was too slow. Couldn’t get out of the way of a burst of flame fast enough.”

“Was the person who burned you punished?”

Zuko had never been asked that question before, and he scrambled for something to say before his father stepped in for him, “My son is a very wise, merciful boy. I wanted to burn his training partner’s face just as he had burned my son’s, but Zuko found the strength to stop me, even while his face was still smoldering. He didn’t think his partner should be punished for an accident.”

_What a heartwarming tale_ , Zuko thought miserably, studying his shoes and wringing his hands. _Even if it_ had _been a training accident, my father would’ve never shown such compassion. Not even if I’d asked him. That trainee would’ve been publicly burned alive by sundown._

The rest of the Targaryen entourage seemed to be thinking the same thing, because when Zuko spared a glance over his shoulder, he saw the way they whispered behind their hands and nudged one another with their elbows in barely-concealed amusement.

Hakoda nodded thoughtfully and folded his hands behind his back, stalking around Zuko like a wolf circling its prey. All of Winterfell seemed to be holding its breath as Hakoda’s eyes raked over Zuko, burning holes into him while studying every possible angle, and the pounding of Zuko’s heart combined with his constricting outfit made him worry he’d pass out right then and there.

Finally, Hakoda returned to his spot in front of Zuko, and with a small incline of his head, he declared, “I accept your offer, Firelord Targaryen.”

The Targaryen procession cheered so loudly that it dislodged the snow off of roofs and battlements, clapping and whooping and calling out congratulations, but Zuko was keen to notice how only a few of the southerners joined in. Most of them were still tense and silent, their faces etched with lines of worry and distain and their knuckles turning white around the items they were carrying.

His father kicked him in the shin so hard he almost yelped, and he was quick to bow to Hakoda once again with a hurried, “Thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad I could please you.”

“Of course, Zuko. I believe you will make a fine match for my boy.” For the first time, a hint of a smile cracked Hakoda Stark’s frigid demeanor, and Zuko found himself smiling back timidly. “Speaking of, I shall now offer my son, Sokka Stark—twelfth of his name.”

The crowd parted like the sea at the hands of a waterbender, making a path from the assembled royals to the wooden doors of the Stark stronghold, and Zuko was struggling to tear his eyes away from his hands. He could hardly bear to look.

_I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this—_

He took in a deep, shuddering breath (or as much of a breath as his outfit would allow) and finally mustered up the courage to lift his gaze.

There was no one waiting for him at the threshold of the Starks’ quarters. Zuko peered around, wondering if this was some kind of joke as murmurs rippled through the throngs of people, but when he looked to Hakoda, he found that the Lord of Winterfell’s face had gone ashen.

He cleared his throat and repeated himself, louder this time, “I SHALL NOW OFFER MY SON, SOKKA STARK—TWELFTH OF HIS NAME.”

Zuko expected Sokka to come running, hair mussed and furs disheveled, but none such thing happened. A shiver raced up his body like the touch of a cold hand, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He glanced at the guards on the battlements, half expecting their crossbows to be poised to shoot down at them for a quick, ruthless slaughter. They weren’t, but the assurance did nothing to keep Zuko from feeling like he was going to get pounced on the moment he dared to be at ease.

“Lord Stark.” Ozai’s voice was deathly calm. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I…I don’t know!” Hakoda ran a hand down his face. His fingers were trembling. “I told him where he was supposed to be. I told him to come when announced. He was here the last time I checked; I swear it!”

Hakoda whirled on another man at his side— _there’s a bear on his chestplate, must be Lord Bato Mormont_ —and exchanged fierce, panicked whispers with him. Zuko’s heart sank when he realized that his future husband hadn’t forgotten about his arrival. He was avoiding it on purpose.

 _Maybe I’ll be able to sneak away and run back to the harbor once they start arguing,_ Zuko thought, glancing to Uncle Iroh, but the man looked just as worried as Hakoda Stark did and wasn’t paying him any attention.

“Lord Stark,” Ozai repeated. The note of fury in his father’s voice felt like a bucket of ice water down Zuko’s spine and made him wither where he stood, despite how the words weren’t aimed at him. “There’d better be an explanation as to why your son is not here to greet us, or things are going to start going in a direction that I thought you explicitly wished to avoid.”

The whole courtyard bristled the moment the words left his mouth, and Zuko wondered why his father was so bold as to threaten a Lord within his own stronghold. The guards on the battlements had gone rigid, and Zuko realized with mounting horror that the arrows loaded into their crossbows were barbed, as to mangle the wound further if anyone tried to pull it from their skin.

Not to mention that the citizens of Winterfell didn’t look too happy, either, as they whispered among themselves and glowered at Ozai. Zuko had the misfortune of catching the eye of a furious stonemason, and Zuko gulped and looked away when the man’s lips curled into a disgusted snarl. There were a great many hands hovering over pockets and tucked into cloaks, hints of trembling fingers wrapped around the hilts of knives and daggers.

One wrong move, one wrong word, and this wedding would be a war.

“My sincerest apologies.” Hakoda’s head was held high, his expression stoic, and his voice never wavered. A bead of sweat dribbled down his temple despite the cold. “My son is quite strong-willed, and he most likely—”

“Where is he?!” Ozai bellowed, and the entire crowd shrank back. “Where is your son?!”

Hakoda was just opening his mouth to reply when a shrill howl ripped through the air, resonating against the walls of Winterfell like a clock striking the hour.

Zuko whirled around to find a gigantic blue-eyed wolf bounding into the courtyard, baying like a hound who’d caught a trail, with a black beast of a horse following not far behind who was steered by a rider draped in furs.

The horse was taller and stockier than a Komodo rhino, its mane adorned with feathers and its hide painted with colorful symbols—red circles around its eyes and nostrils, lightning racing up its front legs, and handprints on its shoulders and flank.

Its hoofbeats sounded like rolling thunder against the earth.

A second horse brought up the rear, tethered to the saddle of the first and whiter than freshly fallen snow, and the rider pulled the black horse to a stop and turned to face them. Zuko felt like someone had broken into his ribcage and stolen the breath out of his lungs.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Perhaps a gigantic, grizzled warrior who looked more like a thirty-year-old man than a teenager, or maybe a slim hillbilly with no teeth, knobby knees, and a pathetic wisp of a beard. But he certainly hadn’t anticipated for Sokka Stark to look like _that._

He was tall, strapping, and had sharp, calculating eyes that were bluer than sapphires—just like his father. The black fur cloak he wore made him look powerful rather than uncouth, and the hair on either side of his head was shorn close to his scalp so he could braid the rest back into a short wolf tail.

“My apologies for my lateness, my lords and ladies of House Targaryen and its diplomats.”

 _Good spirits_ , his voice sounded like water tripping over stones.

Sokka dismounted with the ease of someone who’d been riding since he’d been in diapers, and untied the rope that was keeping the white horse fastened to his saddle.

“Sokka Stark.” Ozai’s voice came out as a growl. His father’s hands had begun to steam slightly in the frigid air. “May I ask why you weren’t here to receive us?”

“I meant no disrespect, my Lord,” Sokka assured with a dip of his head. “I was merely fetching a gift for my betrothed from the stables…unfortunately, I miscalculated the time it would take to do so.”

His gaze finally locked with Zuko’s as the crowd tittered excitedly, and Zuko’s saliva turned to ashes in his mouth. There was a frostiness to his stare that pierced sharper than a spear, picking Zuko apart piece by piece to bare his soul…not seeming to like what he found. Zuko found himself bristling, and he sneered right back at him.

“A gift?” Ozai grunted, and did he sound…surprised?

“Yes, a gift. It’s a long-standing tradition of my people.”

Sokka’s lips quirked into a smile that was a little too full of teeth, and it took all of Zuko’s willpower not to turn tail and run for the hills when he realized Sokka’s canines were filed into slight points. Zuko had known from his lessons that it was all the rage for young southern boys—especially ones allied to House Stark—to sharpen their canines to resemble a wolf, but the shock of it was still frightening.

He knew “exotic” was a terrible word to use, but Sokka was just so _different_ from all the other boys he’d admired back at Capital City. While those boys were primped and pompous, shying away from puddles and bemoaning dirt on their clothes, Sokka looked like the kind of boy who climbed the tallest trees, rolled in the mud, and sullied all of his finery despite his father’s best efforts. He had a wild spark in his eye that none of the fire nation boys had, a promise of witty banter and daring adventure.

_That could be anger, too,_ an unhelpful voice in Zuko’s head pointed out. _He could be analyzing you to see which pieces his dire wolf would like the most._

Speaking of dire wolves, Zuko’s entire body went rigid at the sight of the gigantic white beast padding over to stand obediently at Sokka’s side. Its head reached up to Sokka’s chest, its claws long and black like obsidian knives, and Zuko was pretty sure that it was staring at him like a fresh hunk of meat.

Zuko tried his hardest to keep his back straight and his expression schooled as Sokka approached, leading the white horse along behind him with that terrifying wolf following suit. The combined gazes of Sokka and the wolf analyzing him from the front, and his father’s austere gaze boring into the side of his head, made him feel like he would shatter to pieces under all of the pressure.

Finally, the two of them came face-to-face for the first time, so close that if Zuko reached out his hand, his fingertips would graze Sokka’s chest. He’d spent so long dreading this moment that now that it was actually here, he was too shell-shocked remember how angry he was supposed to be. He almost didn’t bow to the proper height because he was trembling so badly, but the burden of his father’s presence at his side was an excellent motivator.

“Sokka,” he said softly, the name feeling like stones in his mouth. The two of them were the same rank, so there were no titles he had to worry about…at least, he didn’t think so; he’d been rehearsing these words ever since he’d been given the ultimatum of their betrothal. The reminder that he'd be married to this man, that neither of them wanted this and would live out the rest of their lives in abject misery, made his lips curl and bitterness slip into his words. “It’s a _pleasure_ to meet you.”

Sokka's eye twitched. He must've notice the bite in his tone. “The pleasure is all mine."

He no doubt was lying right through his straight, white, and stupidly filed teeth, and Zuko prayed that his disgust didn't show too badly on his face. Judging from Sokka's equally disgusted expression, he was failing miserably. A part of him was offended that someone from as low of a House as Sokka Stark would have the audacity to be so confrontational. Sure, House Stark was powerful in the South, but how many people actually _lived_ here? House Tully had had twice as many men and about as many vassals, and they'd been crushed easily. Sokka was either fearless or stupid, but considering how he dressed and filed his teeth like some sort of savage, Zuko suspected the latter.

Sokka bowed to him—the angle a little higher than what would be considered perfect, naturally—and Zuko's stomach clenched in revulsion when Sokka took one of his hands, uncurled his fingers from their determined fist, and planted a kiss on the back of it. It was meant to be mocking, Zuko knew; there was a sly glint in Sokka’s eyes, a challenge for Zuko to pipe up and say something about it.

Thankfully for him, his father swooped in to do an inspection before he could lunge and wrap his hands around Sokka's neck. It was more for show than anything else, and if Sokka was uneasy during it, he didn’t show it.

_Stupid bastard. Shouldn't you know when to be afraid? Maybe his parents dropped him when he was a child...or perhaps he got a kick on the head from his horse._

“I accept your offer, Lord Stark.”

There came another round of cheering and applause, and at least this time a majority of the southerners joined in. Some of them were even smiling as they regarded their future Lord, and Zuko had no idea how Sokka had managed to get all of them to look at him with such adoration. All Zuko received when he interacted with the citizens of Capitol City was polite reverence, never adoration, and Zuko’s chest curdled uncomfortably. He was jealous. What had Sokka Stark ever done for these people? He was the son of their Lord in a bleached wasteland, his father ruling over them in a disgusting prison-like stronghold that looked like a _hovel_ compared to Dragonstone in Capital City. How could he possibly command any respect?

Once the celebration subsided, the Targaryen entourage dispersed to explore Winterfell and seek out their quarters while the onlooking southerners returned to whatever business they’d been attending, leaving Zuko’s family and Sokka’s family alone save for Admiral Zhao and Lord Bato. The right-hand men hovered nearby at a respectful distance away, ready to swoop in to carry out any orders, and Zuko had to admit that Bato Mormont was most definitely a more honorable man than Zhao of House Clegane.

Zuko had once seen Zhao chop off the hand of a peasant man who’d tried to beg him for food and money, watching with a smile as he was ushered away by his terrified family. Zuko had always wondered what had become of that man, if he’d recovered and was now a one-handed beggar or if he’d died from his wounds.

“It was a pleasure to arrange this with you,” Ozai declared. “I have a feeling this union of House Targaryen and House Stark will be talked about for centuries to come.”

“May future generations sing songs about this day,” Hakoda agreed. He looked tired.

The two lords shook hands as if they were business partners and not men who’d just sealed the fates of their children, and Zuko idly realized that he’d just been sold to House Stark in exchange for an army. It was funny how he was so numb that the epiphany didn’t even mean anything to him anymore, did nothing but make him feel angry and rotten on the inside. 

“It’s great to see you again, Lord Stark,” Uncle Iroh greeted, and he and Hakoda shook hands as well. “How has the South Pole been treating you?”

“No less terribly than usual,” Hakoda snorted, and everyone laughed. It was an empty, showy laugh, and they all knew it, but at this point everything was so tied up in circumstance and formality that there was no use in deciphering the real from the fake anymore. “Winter is on its way, and we’ve been stocking up on all the necessary stores as the oceans start to freeze. The best we can hope for is a short, easy winter and a bountiful harvest next spring.”

“I take it your children are equipped to handle this winter on their own?” Ozai nodded to Sokka and then to a girl that Zuko had only just now realized.

She’d been hidden behind Hakoda and looked almost exactly like him—intense blue eyes, dark skin, thick furs…the whole shebang—and even though Zuko remembered from his lessons that she was a waterbender and that she preferred sea prunes over seal jerky, Zuko struggled to recall her name...Kya? Kiera?

There was another dire wolf at her side, a big black one with dark eyes that looked a lot scarier than Sokka’s wolf. It had a piece of straw dangling from its mouth, probably a leftover from chasing vermin around in the hay of the stables, and Zuko wondered how easy it would be for that wolf to leap up tear him to shreds.

“Indeed. Sokka has been studying diligently in the ways of leadership for many years, while Katara is just finishing up her training to become the new Captain of the Guard while Lord Mormont rides with us.”

“I hear you’re a fine waterbender, Lady Stark,” Ozai drawled, and Katara squared her shoulders with a nod, though the way she fiddled with an odd necklace around her throat betrayed her uneasiness. “You and Azula should train together before we go. Perhaps you two can learn from one another.”

Azula offered a wide, catlike grin that was only returned by a polite dip of Katara’s head, and Zuko knew that if Katara took up the offer, she would wind up burned, electrocuted, or both; Azula was not the kind of person to train casually with, and he could only hope that Katara’s bending skills were as advanced as everyone said they were. Then again, it’d probably be funny to see Sokka watch his little sister get fried from the inside out—maybe then it’d wipe that ugly look off his face.

“Alright, everyone, as much as I'd love to continue this chat, I feel that we should leave the grooms-to-be to their own devices,” Uncle Iroh suggested, ignoring the wide-eyed look of betrayal Zuko shot him out of the corner of his eye. “Let’s take this elsewhere and let them get to know each other.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Hakoda agreed, flashing his son a smile that was not returned. “In the meantime, Katara, would you mind showing Azula around Winterfell?”

“Of course.” Katara looked like she’d rather stab out her eye with a sewing needle, but nevertheless plastered on a smile and motioned for Azula to follow as they broke away from the group and headed off in the direction that Sokka had rode in from. “Here, I’ll show you the stables first…”

“I’m not sure how they do it in the South…” Ozai began, watching the girls go with a smile playing on his lips. Perhaps he was imagining Azula frying Katara to a crisp. “…but for us northerners, couples must be chaperoned at all times before they’re wed. I’ll be posting Lord Clegane to watch over them for the next week or so, if that’s alright with you?”

“I don’t see why not; your traditions are just as important as mine. Good luck, boys, and behave yourselves!”

And with that they were off, Hakoda and Bato side-by-side with Zuko’s father and uncle. It was such a strange thing to see that Zuko couldn’t help but stare until they disappeared around a corner and out of sight.

That left just him and Sokka. Alone. Of course…Zhao was with them, too, observing from a respectful distance, but he was far enough away that it was easy to forget that he was there. For a few moments they just stared at each other in stilted, stuffy silence, scuffing their boots in the snow and fidgeting uncomfortably. The only thing interrupting the quiet was the white horse, who pawed at the ground and made the occasional huff, its breath making billowing clouds in the air.

“You know, your face is gonna stick like that if you’re not careful,” Zuko finally growled, and Sokka tore his gaze away from his boots to give him a withering look.

“I could say the same thing for you.”

Alarm bells went off in Zuko’s head, whipping through the gigantic list of all the ways this conversation was tipping on the wayside of being horribly improper, but he was so, so angry, like a bonfire had been lit in his gut and he couldn’t for the life of him stamp it out. His father would beat him if he overheard such words, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten a taste of blood, and now he was going to rip into it.

“Oh, I apologize if you thought my expression was regarding your face. I just don’t quite like the smell of horse and dog you’re sending my way.”

“And I don’t quite like the sight of an overdressed freak with half his face burned off.”

Zuko’s spine snapped straight, and his next exhale came out as a billow of smoke. “You’d better watch yourself. I’ll tell my father you said that.”

“Ah, yes, the northern way. Cowering behind your daddy’s robes.” Sokka’s smile was wide and crooked, mimicking the way his wolf bristled at his side with her teeth bared. “Us southern boys settle it with fists. We weren’t raised dainty. I bet you’ve never even swung a sword.”

“You’d be surprised. And if we were ever in a fight, I’d make you look almost as ugly as me. You’re already halfway there; those big ears and that disgusting haircut aren’t doing you any favors.”

“And that corset you’re wearing makes you look like a woman.” Sokka stepped forward, and Zuko refused to yield even as his breath ghosted over his face. “Seems fitting, since you’re the one taking the name Stark.”

“I’ll kill you,” Zuko whispered. “I could do it right now, burn you to a crisp. It’s not like anyone would dare to stop me with my father here.”

“Yet he doesn’t seem to care for you much, if he’s willing to marry you off to a barbarian like myself and make your younger sibling heir to the throne?” Sokka said with an innocent tilt of his chin. His eyes looked like the eyes of a wolf. “And let’s be honest here, if it weren’t for your little fire trick, I’d be able to snap your neck like a twig. You’ve never killed before, but I have. I could do it again.”

“Ah, I’m truly frightened now,” Zuko muttered with a roll of his eyes despite the way his heart pounded against his ribcage. “Unfortunately for you, my ‘little fire trick’ isn’t going away any anytime soon.”

He made his fingertips crackle with sparks for emphasis, and the white horse Sokka had been leading reared back with a shriek of alarm, nearly yanking the Stark boy into the dirt.

Zuko was barely able to disguise his chuckle. “Why’d you even bring that thing here anyway?”

“My dad made me,” Sokka deadpanned. “In my culture, it’s customary for the first gift for your intended to be the best horse you can afford.” He patted the white horse’s neck. “This one is from the finest breeder in the South Pole, and is the son of one of the strongest war horses to ever live.”

Knowing fully well that Zhao was watching and would expect him to admire the stallion, Zuko shuffled over to the horse reluctantly, pressing his hand against its white nose and feeling how warm it was against his freezing palm. “It looks like a strong gust of wind would blow it over.”

Sokka ignored him. “Everyone in the South needs a horse. They’re our main form of transportation across the tundra, and even though they’re smaller and slower than ostrich horses, they can pull heavier loads and are a smoother ride.”

“I’m fine—you can give it back. It’s not like I can ride it anyway.”

“I’m not going to give him back. You’ll just have to learn.”

Sokka whistled, and that horrifyingly monstrous black horse, which had been meandering around aimlessly in the meantime, came trotting over with its ears pricked. Sokka rubbed its neck, and Zuko was shocked to find the coldness in his eyes had melted away into something soft as he looked at the wretched thing. Perhaps he was only kind when regarding his animals.

“Grey Wind may not be as graceful as your horse here, but we’ll definitely be able to keep up and show you the basics.”

“Well, I don’t want one. Especially not one from you.”

If looks could kill, Zuko would be dead ten times over. “I guess that means the marriage is off, then. Rejecting the horse means rejecting the proposal.”

Zuko threw his hands up in the air with a scoff. “Fine, whatever! I’ll keep the stupid horse!”

“His name is Silver Dancer, and he’s not stupid.”

“He already has a name? I have to keep it and I don’t even get to name it myself?”

“Good spirits, my father said you took lessons about my culture,” Sokka chuckled wryly. “But clearly you didn’t, since you’d know that a horse’s name is sacred. It earns its name by passing a series of tests required by the people who train them.”

“But he’s now earned a name from a Targaryen Prince. I shall call him Turtleduck from now on.”

“Are you deaf? You can’t change it! It’s _sacred_.”

“And I really don’t care. You also think trees can talk and wolves are the reincarnations of your dead relatives, so I don’t think you get to define was ‘sacred’ is.”

“Why, you little piece of—!” Sokka ground his teeth together, balling his hands into his fists and averting his gaze. “You’re not even worthy of sitting on Silver Dancer’s back, you know. His ancestors were ridden into battle against your dragons during the Battle of the Frozen Fires.”

“Which you lost miserably, if I don’t recall? Your House would’ve been wiped from existence had it not been for the Avatar,” Zuko spat. “Wolves are no match for dragons.”

“The dragons are dead.” Sokka’s face had gone almost scarlet from rage. “Do you know why the whole world hates your family? You think your gold and your dragons and your golden dragons make you better than everyone. But can I tell you a secret, Lord Targaryen? You’re not a golden dragon. You’re just a sad, scarred little boy who’s far too slow on the draw.”

Zuko lunged for him with a shriek, his fist sailing toward Sokka’s face in a ball of fire, but before he could so much as singe off the tips of his brows, the white dire wolf leapt at him with a sound unlike anything Zuko had ever heard, her teeth glinting and her hackles raised.

All of his rage left him in a rush as fear took its place, and Zuko cried out in terror as the wolf tackled him into the mud and lunged for his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think over the litany of _NO, NO, NO_ screaming in his ears, but before the wolf could fasten her jaws around his jugular and tear it open, she was being yanked off of him and Zhao Clegane was at his side.

“Prince Zuko, are you alright?” he asked as he took Zuko by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet.

Sokka had wrapped both his arms around Yue’s chest to hold her in place as she writhed and snapped, struggling to keep a hold on Silver Dancer’s lead on top of that. “Yue! No, bad! Sit! Do you want to get us all killed?!”

The wolf, Yue, wrenched out of Sokka’s grip with a snarl, giving Zuko one last glare before prowling off and disappearing into the crowd.

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Zhao!” Sokka cried before Zuko could even think to get a word out. “I…I’m so, so sorry. She…she’s got a mind of her own, and—”

“I saw everything,” Zhao snorted, and Zuko’s eyes widened when Zhao gave him a disappointed look. _HE’S ON SOKKA’S SIDE?!_ “Lunging at your betrothed? How horribly improper of you, Prince Zuko. You’re a fool for pulling such a stunt in front of a protective dire wolf, no less. You deserved whatever that beast had coming to you.”

“But—!”

“I’ll hear none of it. We shall report to your father immediately to tell him what you’ve done.”

“Wait, please, no! I’ll apologize, please!” He knew he sounded desperate, knew he sounded weak, and couldn’t bear to see the wide-eyed look Sokka was giving to him. If he didn’t get out of this, he’d be punished. How had things gone so horribly wrong? “Please, Lord Clegane, please!”

But Zhao had already grabbed him by the shoulder and was dragging him away, leaving Sokka gaping in the dust with the horses on either side of him. Zuko spared him one last tearful glare over his shoulder before Zhao pulled him around a corner and he disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The chapter everyone's been waiting for! Man, I just love writing some good angst. Please leave a comment/kudos if you liked it; it helps me crank out the chapters faster!


	5. The Dragon and the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka and Zuko strain to overcome their differences, and an ancient prophecy speaks of a threat on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Mentions of mass death due to natural disaster

**V.**

**THE DRAGON AND THE WOLF**

Sokka was finishing the last touches on the engagement necklace when he heard a knock from his bedroom door.

Yue leapt off of the bed with a howl and slammed the full force of her bodyweight against the door, planting her paws against it and barking wildly at whoever was on the other side. Her tail was propelling at a million miles an hour, so it was probably Katara or one of Sokka’s friends, and he reluctantly hauled himself out of his desk chair and indulged in a big stretch.

His bones crackled in harmony with the fire that sputtered in the hearth, and his stomach decided to give itself a solo as it whined in complaint. He hadn’t gone to breakfast—spirits _forbid_ he encountered Zuko or his father—and that, on top of the fact that he’d eaten sparingly the night before, made him hungrier than a dire wolf. 

Perhaps he should’ve made himself more presentable—he hadn’t put his hair up or donned his furs, his room was a wreck, and he was pretty sure he looked like death warmed over—but Katara and his friends wouldn’t care either way.

_Maybe we’re invited to a hunt, or maybe there’s going to be a ceremonial performance, or maybe…_

The knock came again, louder and more insistent, and Sokka ran a hand down his face as he shuffled over to the door and grasped the handle. Whoever was here, they’d better have brought him some snacks.

Imagine his surprise when he threw the door open and came face-to-face with Ambassador Iroh, jolly as ever as he cradled a steaming cup of tea in his hands. Yue went absolutely berserk, her whole body wriggling with excitement as she weaved between Iroh’s legs and leapt up to try to lick his face, and Sokka had to grab her with both hands before she could tackle the poor man to the ground.

“Ambassador Iroh!” Sokka stammered. “I didn’t expect you here!”

“My apologies for not sending word earlier,” Iroh said with a nod of acknowledgement. “I was planning on speaking with you at breakfast, but you didn’t attend.”

“Sorry about that, ambassador, I…wasn’t hungry,” Sokka lied, stepping to the side with Yue still wriggling in his arms. She’d become obsessed with Iroh ever since he started bringing gourmet treats from the North on every one of his visits. “Please, come in. It’s…a bit of a mess, sorry.”

“No worries,” Iroh said with a smile and a dip of his head as he strolled inside, his face not betraying any judgement as he took in the unmade bed, the clothes and papers and books scattered across the floor, and the messy desk.

_Fuck! The desk!_ Sokka slammed the door closed with his foot and rushed over to try to hide everything, but Iroh had already placed down his cup of tea so he could pick up the engagement necklace and inspect it further.

“Shit, sorry, I…should’ve cleaned up.” Sokka skidded to a stop, wringing his hands sheepishly. “You…weren’t supposed to see that.”

“What, is there some rule that your future uncle-in-law cannot see the necklace?” Iroh asked with a chuckle. “This craftsmanship is very impressive, especially under such an unfortunate short notice.”

His eyes slid to a point over Sokka’s shoulder, and Sokka feared he’d be sick when he realized he’d tacked a sloppy drawing of Zuko’s head onto his wall and had been throwing knives and hurling insults at it for the better part of the morning. It wouldn’t have been recognizable as Zuko if he hadn’t had a big red scar on his face—it was on the wrong side, he now realized—and was boasting a comically villainous frown and spiky hair.

“Good spirits,” Sokka muttered, guiltily snatching the picture away and wincing as the knives that were still imbedded in the wall tore the paper to shreds. He balled it up and threw it into the waste bin. “Fucking shit.”

Iroh sighed, shaking his head, and handed the necklace back to Sokka, who stuffed it unceremoniously into a pocket in his cloak as his stomach sank like an anchor being dropped into the sea. Without bothering to be invited, Iroh pulled the chair out of the desk and promptly sat, smiling softly when Yue trotted up to him and put her head in his lap.

_How could such a mild-mannered, considerate man have a nephew so repulsive?_

“I think we have a lot to discuss, Sokka,” he said firmly, carding his fingers through the wolf’s fur. “Make yourself comfortable.”

There were no other chairs in the room, so Sokka awkwardly leaned against the wall, worrying his lip between his teeth and trying not to be consumed by fear and embarrassment. Sokka imagined how he would feel if he walked into the room of the man that his nephew was supposed to marry and saw knives embedded into his nephew’s picture.

Iroh was a friendly old man, but he was still a Targaryen. He was going to tell Firelord Ozai. He was going to have the wedding called off and Sokka’s entire family was going to die. Sokka had already been scolded and punished by his father for that horrible stunt with Yue, and this would be the last straw. He was—

“Calm down. Take deep breaths. I can tell your mind is troubled, but you have nothing to worry about; I’m not angry at you.”

Sokka let out a shuddering breath, and if Iroh had asked him to crumble to his knees and beg for his life, Sokka would’ve done it. “I’m so, _so_ sorry Ambassador. I promise that nothing like this will happen _ever_ again, I swear on the old gods and the new! I was just angry and frustrated and I can’t talk to anyone about how I’m feeling or they’ll think I’m a disloyal son—”

“My nephew has been experiencing the same things,” Iroh took another sip of tea, a soft smile coming to his face. “Though, he has me to rant to. He may not be throwing knives at your picture, but he’s given you some scathing reviews.”

_Hmm. I wonder why,_ Sokka thought bitterly. _Maybe it was the hostile first meeting, or maybe it was the celebratory welcome dinner where we sat next to each other and didn’t say a word the whole time._

Zuko had looked exhausted, and when he'd reached for a new helping of potatoes, his sleeve had slid back to reveal an angry red welt on his wrist in the shape of a handprint. Sokka hadn't dared to ask about it, but guilt had clawed at him for the rest of the night despite the little part of him that was glad the fucker had gotten what was coming to him; Hakoda had ordered him to lock Yue in the kennels for the night rather than risk her taking a bite out of Zuko’s thigh during dinner. Without Yue there to feed scraps to under the table, it’d been obvious that Sokka had barely touched his meal despite his father’s warning looks. He'd wondered, with a growing pit in his stomach, if he’d never be able to eat with his dire wolf again.

Since Sokka wasn’t offering up any sort of explanation, Iroh didn’t hesitate to continue on, “Zuko was rather furious when he came back to his room last night; I spoke quite highly of you before we arrived, and he accused me of being a liar and a storyteller. I don’t suppose how he could’ve gained such an impression?”

“No clue,” Sokka muttered, folding his arms over his chest and turning away. “The guy’s got a problem.”

Iroh’s easygoing expression faded somewhat, and a bead of sweat trickled down Sokka’s neck when he realized Iroh’s tea was steaming and bubbling a bit more than it should. Was it…boiling? Fuck, Sokka was always finding a way to say the wrong thing and mess everything up.

“Oh, but surely you’d never _purposefully_ be disrespectful! I know you well enough to be certain you’d understand how difficult it must be for a boy your age to move to a foreign land, forsake his family name, and marry a stranger.”

“And surely Ambassador Iroh, a lover of all Houses and ways of life, would understand how _angry_ I would be if someone hypothetically insulted my House and culture.”

Iroh’s eyes slipped closed, and Yue whined as his hand went still in her fur. “Zuko truly disrespected you in such a way?”

“I never said Zuko did anything. I said ‘hypothetically.’” Sokka replied in a way that clearly stated that this was Zuko he was talking about. “But in the event that it wasn’t, I’d trust you to consider all sides of the story.”

“You must realize, Sokka, that my nephew is a very…volatile boy.” Iroh took another sip of tea to calm his nerves. “He feels things very deeply, and those feelings often lead to a hot temper. He’s been struggling…quite a lot to cope with his current situation, and that struggle can sometimes manifest into cruelty, and saying things he doesn't actually mean.”

Sokka would rather eat hot coals than admit aloud that he and Zuko had something in common, and shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Could you talk to him, perhaps while you’re giving him the necklace? I feel as though you two got off on the wrong foot, and I wouldn’t want a single first impression to affect your relationship for the rest of your lives; you two are more compatible than you might think, if you’d only get to know each other.”

“Listen, I’m kind of busy—” Perhaps he needed to tweak the necklace a little more, and his father had recommended that he sit in on a meeting with the Targaryen diplomatic council today, but he withered where he stood at the look on Iroh’s face. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. Do you have any idea where he could’ve gone?”

“He told me he was going to practice his firebending stances, so perhaps somewhere quiet and secluded.”

The _last_ thing that Sokka wanted was to search the entirety of Winterfell for his firebender husband-to-be who was having a temper tantrum, but nevertheless he threw on his furs and tied up his hair, allowing the ambassador to finish his tea in Sokka’s room while Yue fawned over him.

He really _did_ have a huge respect for Iroh, more respect than he had for Ozai or Zuko, and he didn’t want to make him disappointed…not to mention that Iroh could still change his mind about the whole Zuko picture fiasco.

It was bitterly cold out—the waterbenders were predicting one of the coldest winters since the Targaryen conquest—and Sokka fumbled with the buckles of his hastily strapped cloak so he could pull it tighter around himself. Despite this, everyone was still out and about, the bustle even busier than usual as Winterfell scrambled to accommodate its extra guests. The sight of red and gold robes mixed in with the normal blend of blues was off-putting to say the least.

“Good afternoon, Lord Stark!”

“How do you do, Lord Stark?”

“I hope the day has been treating you well, Lord Stark!”

The usual bombardment of greetings and well-wishes never failed to boost spirits, and Sokka found the tension from the morning slowly draining from him as he bowed and nodded and waved while he maneuvered through the throngs of people.

He stopped to talk to the children, surprised to find pale, black-haired boys and girls clad in red among the usual ragtag group, and asked the farrier about his new wife because he knew he loved to talk about her. He complimented the work of the blacksmith—who was working overtime to make horseshoes the northerners could buy as souvenirs—and helped the owner of the general store carry some new boxes of imported flowers into her shop.

“These red jasmines look beautiful,” Sokka said as he stacked the last box inside, all of the scents coalescing into a heady, dizzying aroma. “Smells good, too.”

“I’m glad you like them!” she laughed, patting his shoulder with a wrinkled hand. When Sokka was younger, she’d give them free sweets from the counter despite Hakoda’s insistence that the Stark family should never get anything for free, even if they were the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell. “They’re specially for you and the Targaryen prince. I’m weaving them and the rest of these flowers into garlands for the altar!”

“That’s great.” Sokka hoped his smile hadn’t faded too much. “I’m sure it’ll look fantastic.”

He nodded as brightly as he could before hurrying away; he didn’t think he could bear being roped into a conversation about his upcoming marriage without growing furious, and the last thing he wanted was for Ozai to catch wind of his soon-to-be-son-in-law slandering him in public.

Sokka checked all of his own usual haunts first, places where he himself always fled to when the Weirwood grove was out of the question and he needed some quiet time for himself. The Great Hall. The library. The indoor gardens. The stables were a bust, too, and Sokka had to check to make sure that Silver Dancer was still in his stall, just to make sure that Zuko hadn’t gone out (He still couldn’t ride, but the fucker was probably stubborn enough to try anyway). Nevertheless, despite the many exploring firebender nobles that Sokka stumbled across, the Targaryen prince was never among them.

He tried the training yard, where Katara was whaling away at a dummy with a sloppily-drawn face taped onto it that looked awfully like Azula’s (perhaps beating up bad drawings of the Targaryens ran in the family), and then checked the battlements on top of the walls where the guards patrolled. He even climbed up the abandoned watchtower in the back corner of the stronghold where the teenagers liked to hang out, but Zuko was still nowhere to be found.

It was at this point that Sokka started to get frustrated. Where else could Zuko _possibly_ have gone? All of the other places he’d think to look were too secluded for Zuko to have found already, and he was positive that he hadn’t left Winterfell. He considered getting Yue and have her track him, but he didn’t think such a technique would be very well-received.

He was just about to give up, Iroh’s feelings be damned, when he heard a blast of fire echoing from his left, followed by a frustrated snarl. Sokka turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach, and gasped when it dawned on him where the noise was coming from.

Sokka bolted like a horse stung by a gadfly, nearly bowling over the people walking along as he skidded around a corner and onto the least-traversed path in Winterfell, wedged between the back of the Stark’s dwelling and a stone wall that reached almost as high as the icy ones that surrounded Winterfell. The wall was choked with brown vines that, despite their withered appearance, would blossom into gorgeous ice lilies once the dead of winter hit, and Sokka sprinted as fast as he could through an archway that was set into the bricks.

He burst into the hidden courtyard that the wall surrounded, just in time to see Zuko unleash a column of flame from his palms. The prince’s face was contorted with fury, and his golden irises danced with reflected fire.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Sokka roared, and Zuko leapt ten feet into the air with a yelp, stumbling back and nearly falling on his ass into the snow.

His hair was tied up into a bun, capped with that same golden fire ornament, but he’d traded in the gaudy and over-embroidered robe from yesterday for a simpler royal uniform, complete with the Targaryen sigil and some weird, ugly pauldrons. The scar was just as prominent as ever, like someone had ground up some beef and slapped it onto the left side of his face, and even though Sokka knew it was mean to think of it as ugly, he couldn’t help but find it hard to look at.

Zuko’s startled shock evaporated when he realized it was Sokka who’d interrupted him, irritation rushing in to take its place. “What the hell do you want?! Why are you here?!”

“I’d like to ask you the same thing!” Sokka hissed. “You really like testing my patience, don’t you? You love getting that _one last_ jab in—"

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m literally not doing anything and suddenly you barge in here and start yelling like a psycho! You need calm the fuck down!”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Sokka snapped, jabbing an accusing finger at him. “I wouldn’t call this ‘not doing anything’!”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to firebend now?! _Is that what this is about?!_ ” Zuko bellowed, a lick of flame bursting from his mouth as his fists clenched. “Cause you’ve got another thing coming if you think—!”

“I don’t give two shits that you were firebending! I’d just prefer it if you didn’t do it near my family’s sacred fucking burial ground!”

Zuko’s eyes went wide, and for the first time, Sokka noticed that the iris of his scarred eye was slightly milkier than the other…though he could’ve sworn that Zuko had said he could still see out of it. Sokka expected him to explode, to tell him to fuck off and insult his culture again just like how he’d done when Sokka had presented Silver Dancer to him, but instead Zuko wilted where he stood, looking miserably embarrassed.

“I’m…sorry,” he murmured after an awkward stretch of silence, rubbing his arm and refusing to meet Sokka’s gaze. Sokka knew his fingers were ghosting over the welt beneath. “I didn’t know. I just…I wanted somewhere I could be alone.”

“Well, I suppose you found the right place; no one really comes around here unless they have to,” Sokka sighed as he scanned the courtyard. This used to be his Weirwood grove, back when he was too young to leave Winterfell by himself but still needed a place to think. “It’s…actually pretty cool. The courtyard itself isn’t the burial ground, but it’s meant to channel energy to help guide people to the next life. You see that door over there? The one with the wolf statues on either side? Yeah, that’s the actual crypt. The cool thing is that—”

Sokka realized he was about to start rambling and quickly composed himself, “Sorry for getting sidetracked…but it would probably do you some good to learn about this stuff.”

“I had lessons!” Zuko snapped.

“Your lessons were from a northerner who just visited Winterfell for the first time yesterday. The only way for you to really know the South is to, you know, ask someone who actually lives here.”

Sokka motioned with his chin for Zuko to follow, and Zuko hesitated before reluctantly obeying. The walls of the courtyard were lined with snow-dusted totem poles that told stories of Winterfell’s history, the carved animals and painted eyes keeping watchful vigil over everything. Some featured wolves and dragons, while others spotlighted the lion of House Lannister, the stag of House Baratheon, or the squid of House Greyjoy—the newer ones even included the winged sow of House Beifong. But all of them shared one thing in common: a three-eyed raven with spread wings balancing at the top, its beak open in a silent cry.

It was a bit obvious that these totem poles were sacred—not to mention very much flammable—but Sokka couldn’t blame Zuko _that_ much for not knowing what they were.

“This is the story House Stark’s founding,” Sokka explained, pointing to the totem pole that was the farthest to the left. It featured a man wearing furs crouched at the bottom and a gigantic white wolf on his shoulders. “That man is Burlaq the Builder, my great-great-great… well, eight ‘greats’ grandfather, and above him is Nymeria, the reincarnation of his mother who merged with the Great Wolf Spirit.”

The paint was peeling and faded, and the waterbenders had forgot to re-seal the wood this year, causing discoloration and a bit of splintering. The silver that gilded Nymeria’s eyes was still there, though, and whenever the skies danced with green light, it made it look like the wolf was blinking and looking around. Sokka had always loved to come here as a kid and look at all the totems with Katara and his mother, help repaint them and retell the stories, but now their mother was gone and all the joy he’d ever gotten from the totems had turned bitter.

“The wolf was his _mom?_ ” Zuko prompted, narrowing his eyes to study the carved faces that were probably older than his entire House. “Are you sure it wasn’t his wife whom he lost during childbirth? Or a secret lover who died before they could run away together?”

“Um…err…no? Definitely not? I have no idea how you came to that conclusion.”

Zuko shrugged. “It’s just that firebender stories usually make it more dramatic like that.”

"It’s not a story. It’s history. It actually happened.”

“You just said it was a story five seconds ago. You told me this was ‘the story of House Stark’s founding’ if I’m not mistaken.”

“Do you want to argue about my choice of words or do you want to learn about these totem poles, cause’ we can’t do both!” Sokka snapped.

“I’d rather check out the crypt, to be honest,” Zuko deadpanned, Sokka feared he’d tackle the annoying cunt to the ground and throttle him as the corners of his lips quirked. “Don’t get me wrong, this is interesting, but I’ve…never been in a real crypt before.”

“Never?” Sokka prompted. “Not even to visit your mom?”

It was meant to be an innocent question, but Zuko’s smug expression darkened faster than a winter storm rolling in from the sea. “That’s none of your business.”

Sokka, grinding his teeth together so hard he feared his jaw would split in half, trudged over to the doors and threw them open with mocking flourish. Why was he even indulging this douche? He should’ve just told Zuko to go fuck himself, tossed that stupid engagement necklace at his head, and stormed back to his room to sulk for the rest of the day _._ He didn’t bother holding the doors ajar for Zuko, and the firebender muttered some unsavory things under his breath as they nearly slammed shut in his face.

Beyond the threshold was a spiral staircase of stone and ice that led down into a gaping mouth of blackness. The only light to see by came from crackling and sputtering torches set up at intervals along the wall, and even then Sokka had to blink hard to get his eyes to adjust. It was about ten degrees colder here as an icy draft drifted up from the depths, and it smelled like wet stone and musty earth.

Sokka used to be terrified of the crypt—it didn’t help that Bato had liked to scare him with spooky ghost tales—but after coming down here time and time again with Katara and Hakoda to visit his mother on her birthday and on holidays, he’d tried to start having a more positive attitude toward it.

Zuko, however, was _clearly_ nervous, no matter how much he tried to hide his unease behind folded arms and a nonchalant expression. He took one look at the staircase and said, “Absolutely not. There’s _no way_ I’m going down there.”

“Then why’d you ask for me to show you in the first place?!” Sokka spat. “What, are you scared of a few dead people?”

“I’m not scared!” Zuko retorted, sounding like a big fat liar. “It’s just that I—”

“For someone whose family is known for eradicating an entire race of benders and slaughtering a fuck ton of Houses, I’d thought you’d be a bit more comfortable with the idea of dead bodies.”

“ _EXCUSE_ ME?!”

Sokka barely dodged a blast of fire that exploded against the wall beside his head, whirling around and setting off down the stairs while Zuko screamed profanity at his back. It was easy to tune out once he got used to it, and he couldn’t help but smirk as he descended into the catacombs. He was about halfway down when he heard an exasperated noise of disgust from behind him and the sound of reluctant feet slamming down the steps.

“Quiet,” Sokka growled once Zuko had caught up, putting a finger to his lips when the firebender boy opened his mouth to continue his annoying yapping, “You’ll wake the dead.”

“Dead people can’t wake up,” Zuko hissed, cursing under his breath when his foot slipped on one of the stones and he nearly toppled down the rest of the flight. “That’s why they’re dead.”

“Ah, but have you not heard the stories?” Sokka grinned over his shoulder, hoping his face looked a touch ghastly in the firelight, and Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“What stories?”

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Zuko whistled as a cavernous passage stretched out before them, longer than Winterfell’s walls were tall. Their footsteps resounded like the hoofbeats of a whole herd of arctic yak, and there was a leak coming from somewhere, tiny drops splashing onto the stones in rhythm and echoing like the thrum of a heartbeat. Alcoves lined either wall, and within those alcoves were statues of those who’d been laid to rest, their hands cupped to hold candles that illuminated the whole corridor with an eerie, dancing glow. Mothers, fathers, cousins, uncles, aunts—everyone who bore the name Stark was buried in this crypt.

When Sokka finally kicked the bucket, he’d be brought down here, too.

He and his family had always joked that he’d be buried with Yue instead of the person he married, but as Sokka imagined himself and Zuko being laid together in the same coffin to live as one for the rest of eternity…it didn’t sound like too bad of an idea. Sokka’s hands balled into fists at the thought of Zuko being buried down here, having his own statue right alongside the Starks whom his ancestors had slaughtered.

_Perhaps you can arrange for Zuko to be buried in Capitol City instead…if he happens to choke before you._

“Hell _ooh_ —Sokka!”

Sokka jolted out of his thoughts with a wince, hoping he didn’t look too guilty for plotting Zuko’s burial arrangements. “What were you saying again?”

“Are you fucking deaf? I asked about the stories you mentioned…three times.”

Sokka decided he didn’t have to feel guilty after all, and he wondered if he should instead be making burial arrangements for sooner rather than later. “If you’re going to be a whiny little bitch about it, you’re not getting a story.”

The candles crackled and sputtered in unison, the flames growing impossibly large and dancing wildly as if blown by the wind. Under any other circumstances, Sokka would’ve run to Gran Gran and told her the ancestors were trying to speak to him. “Fine. I apologize. I would _very much_ appreciate it if you told me about the stories, pretty please with a cherry on top.”

“For a prince, you aren’t all that charming,” Sokka grunted with a roll of his eyes, but nevertheless waved Zuko over to the first alcove on the left, which depicted Burlaq the Builder in all of his glory: one hand brandishing a gigantic hammer outward while the other was held out as if in welcome, a candle flickering in his palm.

Nymeria sat regally at his side, and if the statue was to scale, she would’ve been about twice as large as Yue was. Sokka had always liked how Nymeria was depicted so calm and levelheaded, never with a snarl like the rest of the Stark wolves. It made it seem all the more plausible that she was a Burlaq’s mother, infinitely patient and intelligent.

“There’s a reason why Burlaq chose ‘Winter is Coming’ as House Stark’s motto,” Sokka murmured, watching Zuko watch the statue. The firebender’s eyes held a touch of curiosity as they traced over the weathered stone, cracked and crumbling in places. “I know it probably seems stupid…since it’s always cold and snowy here, but Burlaq wasn’t talking about the normal cycle of the seasons.”

“I know. My professor told us that ‘winter’ was a metaphor for hard times. And for House Stark’s wrath.”

“I mean…I guess you could put it like that, but actually no.” Zuko turned to him, his eyebrow raised in mild surprise, and Sokka continued, “He was actually referring to the Long Night.”

“The Long Night? You mean like the winter solstice or something?”

“It figures that you haven’t heard of it, with your House being new and all.” Before Zuko could open his mouth to argue, Sokka grudgingly amended, “New compared to my House. The Starks are the only living House that has experienced the Long Night, the only people who’ve properly recorded it.”

Sokka sighed, taking a deep breath. “Legend has it that every four hundred years, there comes a winter that lasts an entire generation.”

“In the South Pole?”

“No. Everywhere. The Si Wong desert freezes over and the volcanoes are choked with frost. The sun disappears for years at a time, people are born and die in darkness. The crops wither, people freeze and starve, and all the animals of the world keel over into the snow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zuko muttered. “And my professor also _insists_ that Sozin the Conqueror was so divine that Agni herself blessed House Targaryen with a summer that lasted fifty moons.”

“Don’t pass judgement when your forefathers weren’t even there. The reason why Nymeria fused with the Great Wolf Spirit in the first place was to help Burlaq and his tribe survive the Long Night.”

“How was a big wolf going to help with famine and never-ending darkness?” Zuko prompted. “It’s not like it can till a field or put the sun back in the sky.”

“No. Nymeria protected them from other things.”

Sokka pointed to the corner of the alcove, where a grinning skull was hidden in shadow on a small pedestal, and Zuko flinched back. “Is that…is that his…?”

“Burlaq’s skull? No. The bodies are beneath the statues. I’m pretty sure it belongs to a…baker, I think, who died of pneumonia.”

“Well, what the hell’s it doing here?!”

“Do you know how much five decades of winter throws off the balance of the world, Zuko? There cannot be death without life, and when things start dying and nothing is born to replace them, all of the unfathomable evil that our world usually keeps at bay seeps through the cracks in the universe like water through a sieve. When the Long Night hits, the fabric of reality begins to unwind.”

Sokka reached out and picked up the skull, despite Zuko’s soft gasp. “This man was dead w—”

“Yes, I see that he’s dead! I have eyes, you stupid—”

“No, Zuko. This man was dead _when he attacked_ Burlaq Stark. He’d died a week prior and rose from the grave, clawing his way out of the ice and dragging himself to the closest tent. Burlaq stabbed him twice and it was like he hadn’t done anything—the only way to stop him was to burn him. He’d been the first.”

“The first?!”

“They assumed it was a freak accident. They thought they’d wrongfully pronounced him dead and he’d gone mad from hunger and having to escape from his grave…of course, it didn’t explain how he was able to survive two stab wounds, but they just wanted a sense of security. Next the farrier swore he saw his two-year old daughter wandering through the snow while he was out on a hunt, still wearing the same clothes as when he’d laid her into the earth. Then came a talented weaver, who attacked and killed her sister despite how half her face was still missing from the polar bear dog mauling that took her life not a month prior.”

“That’s ridiculous. People don’t just rise from the dead. That doesn’t happen.”

“Oh, but it did. They crawled from their crypts in various stages of decay, and even though some had died years ago and were very conspicuous, the newer corpses were only distinguishable as the undead by their glowing blue eyes…they called them wights.” Sokka placed the skull back down on its pedestal, wiping the dirt and dust off of his hands. “Legends say that if you looked out onto the tundra in the dead of night, you would see blue dots floating in the distance as the wights shuffled through the snow, like will o’ the wisps.”

“Then what happened after the Long Night was over, huh?” Zuko asked with a smirk, as if he had Sokka backed into a corner. “Why aren’t there any corpse people—”

“Wights.”

"Whatever. Why aren’t there any _wights_ walking around right now?”

“I don’t know. They just…disappeared once summer came, fading away with the thaw. No one’s seen a wight since then, and Burlaq spent the rest of his life building Winterfell to protect House Stark in case they ever returned.”

“Which they won’t, because it never happened.”

“Who are you to say? Your House has only ever known warmth and summer. It’s been almost four hundred years since the last Long Night…we’re due for another one.”

Zuko paused, his brows coming together, before mumbling, “Southerners are weird.”

Sokka was so used to his skepticism about anything and everything that he couldn’t even bother being mad. What Zuko believed was his business, he supposed, and if Zuko wanted to be stupid, then it was fine by Sokka.

An idea came to him then, better than any other idea he’d ever had, and a slow smile crept up onto his face. “Hey, how about I show you something really cool?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what could _possibly_ be cooler than listening to fairytales about people who rose from the dead and attacked your great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather.”

“You missed a ‘great’ but A+ for effort.” Sokka whisked off down the hall with a purposefully dramatic swish of his cloak before Zuko could retort, leaving him no choice but to jog to catch up.

They passed countless other Starks along the way, their stone eyes seeming to follow them as they went by. Munah. Kodir. Yaman. Lallo. Most of them wielded weapons in one hand and candles in the other, with their wolf companions bristling and baring their teeth as if to lunge, and Sokka wondered if Yue would be depicted like that even if she’d only ever seen one battle. 

They passed by his mother’s statue, her arms open in greeting and her face split by a radiant smile, and Sokka only allowed his eyes to linger for a moment, never once slowing down. He didn’t think he could handle Zuko insulting her, too.

When the two of them finally reached the far wall, Sokka made a sharp turn right into one of the alcoves, which was actually a hallway that led to another chamber. Zuko followed two steps behind him like a grumpier, uglier, and sparkier version of Yue, allowing Sokka to lead him along but not seeming all too happy about it, and Sokka had to bite his tongue in order to keep himself from laughing as they finally reached the room.

Zuko stopped dead in his tracks, freezing up like a frightened animal, and Sokka finally allowed a smirk to twist his lips as the firebender’s mouth dropped open.

Before them was the grinning skull of a dragon.

Its eye sockets were larger than water mills and its teeth were as long as Sokka’s sword, and right in the middle of its forehead was a gaping hole, surrounded by spindling cracks from when Arrona Stark, Kodir’s wife, used her waterbending to drive a gigantic wedge of ice into the dragon’s skull.

The rest of the skeleton was here, too, but it had slowly been picked away at in order to be fashioned into armor, jewelry, and weapons. Sokka’s sword had a cross-guard that had been carved from the dragon’s vertebrae, and there were plenty of weapons on display in the armory that had been fashioned from the dragon’s claws. Katara had a few dragon scale necklaces and Sokka’s father’s room—the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell—was decorated with its ribs.

“Zuko Targaryen, I present to you the mighty Viserion: one of three dragons that were used to attack Winterfell during your family’s conquest.”

For once, Zuko was speechless, and he took a few steps back, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. Sokka was pretty sure that dragons were sacred to Zuko’s people, and seeing the remains of one dumped in a musty crypt and displayed like a trophy probably didn’t make him feel too good, but since Zuko didn’t show Sokka’s culture or history any reverence, he should’ve expected his own to be treated in the same manner.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Zuko whispered finally, tearing his eyes away as if the sight had burned him. “Why the _fuck_ did you bring me here?”

“So you fully understand the gravity of what’s going on here when I give you this.”

Sokka saw the life drain out of Zuko’s eyes when he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the engagement necklace, letting it dangle from his fingers. It was fashioned out of dark blue ribbon, as was traditional, and featured a turquoise stone pendant that Sokka had carved himself.

Rather than do something basic like geometric shapes or the waterbender symbol, he’d been a bit more intricate; a dragon and a dire wolf locked in a circling dance around a blazing sun, like yin and yang. Zuko let out a shuddering breath at the sight of it, and Sokka felt something twist in his gut when he realized how incredibly…sad he looked.

_Guilty. You’re feeling guilty,_ a voice in his head that sound awfully like Katara’s supplied.

He quickly steeled himself and continued on, “No matter what happens, no matter how much you and your family think you can just swagger into Winterfell, insult our customs, threaten our people, and try to maintain a stranglehold on the world, there will _always_ be repercussions.”

Sokka thrust his finger out to Viserion’s skull. “ _This_ is what happens to dragons who come to the South. I bet the situation would be the same if a wolf such as myself came to the North. So I’m here to present you with a gift—a sign of peace and goodwill, I suppose—in order to cleanse the bad blood between our Houses and realize that we are equals.”

“I don’t want it,” Zuko murmured, staring at the necklace like how a convicted man stares at a noose. “I…I don’t want to marry you. You fucking disgust me. I don’t want to be buried by your side in a crypt full of strangers.”

His shoulders sagged, as if saying the words had been the only thing keeping him together, and his sorrowful expression hardened into something anguished and dejected.

“Glad we can agree on something.” Sokka meant for it to be sarcastic, but he just sounded tired. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep the rest of the day away…perhaps he could sleep away the rest of his life if he was lucky enough. He waved the engagement necklace gently. “Just…please accept it. My father will notice if you’re not wearing one before the wedding.”

Zuko reached out with trembling fingers to take the necklace from him, running his thumb over the turquoise. “It’s very beautiful.”

“Uh…thanks. That means a lot. I…um…I worked really hard on it.”

There was a long, awkward stretch of silence between them, and Sokka watched as Zuko’s eyes darted from the engagement necklace to the skull of Viserion beside them. It was terribly cruel of Sokka to bring him here, and the remorse festered in his gut like a rotting corpse.

Finally, Zuko asked softly, “Should I…put it on?”

“I’ll do it.”

Zuko nodded solemnly and handed the necklace back, turning around as Sokka shuffled up behind him. Sokka could see the way Zuko’s shoulders rose and fell, could feel the intense firebender body heat that radiated off of him with every breath. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and reached out in front of Zuko, his arms brushing the shoulder plates of the prince’s royal attire as he tied the necklace around his neck, careful not to make it too tight before withdrawing.

“Does…does it look okay?” Zuko turned back around, and the sight of him made Sokka feel like an airbender had stolen all of the breath out of his lungs; the blue of the necklace stood out starkly against the Targaryen’s warm palette, eye-catching and very clearly proclaiming that Zuko was spoken for, and Sokka couldn’t help the slow smile that broke out over his face.

“It looks better on you than it looked on the worktable,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

Zuko’s lips quirked, and he looked away. “Thanks. Do I…am I supposed to wear it every day from now on?”

“Uh...yeah. I mean, that’s what the waterbender Houses usually do, but you…you don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can take it off after the wedding.”

“Alright.”

The conversation fell flat, and it was just the two of them standing in the crypt in silence, the mood quickly turning somber as the lighthearted moment between them deteriorated into something bitter.

“I’m sorry,” Sokka said at last, studying his shoes.

“For what?”

“Bringing you here.” He waved his hand to Viserion’s skull. “To the dragon. And then having the audacity to give you the necklace.”

“Yeah. Dick move,” Zuko growled in agreement. His fingers were already fiddling with the pendant, his thumb rubbing over the carving apprehensively. “I…think I want to go back to my room.”

“Okay. I’ll escort you there.”

“No. I think you’ve done enough.”

Sokka’s jaw clenched, but he nodded all the same, watching as Zuko turned on his heel and hurried out of the room as if his own shadow was chasing him. After waiting a few long moments for Zuko’s footsteps to fade, Sokka followed after him. He didn’t spare a glance back at the dragon.

When he emerged out into the main corridor, he saw Zuko far up ahead, transfixed on one of the statues—Kodir, Sokka was pretty sure—with a furrow in his brow and his head tilted as if he were listening for something, but the moment he caught sight of Sokka, he whirled back around and continued on.

_What the hell was he doing?_ Sokka thought with a roll of his eyes. _As if he weren’t strange enough._

Sokka passed by his mother’s statue again, and no matter how hard he tried to force himself to keep moving, he couldn’t find the strength to. There were withered flowers at her feet from her last birthday—perhaps Sokka could ask the shopkeeper for her leftovers once the garlands were done—and Katara had tucked a note into a gap between her fingers; she did it every week, writing a small little blurb about how the days had been and giving it to the statue for Kya to “read.” Though the temptation to open it was there, Sokka knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

Sokka looked into his mother’s eyes, and even though they were crinkled at the corners with a smile, they were still made of stone. Cold and unfeeling. He wondered what she would’ve thought about this whole thing, if she’d try to cheer him up like she’d always done and tell him to look on the bright side.

“I’m sorry, mom,” he murmured, watching the candles in her palm sway gently in the whisper of his breath. “I know you wouldn’t like how I’ve been acting lately. I just…I don’t know what to do anymore; it feels like my whole life is spinning out of control and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

He stopped, as if expecting an answer, but his only response was the constant _drip drip drip_ of the leak in the ceiling somewhere.

“It’s just sucky, you know? The Greyjoys they…they were the ones that took you away from me, and now I have to marry a guy whose family is allied to them.”

_Drip, drip, drip_

“It doesn’t help that he’s a whiny, ignorant piss baby. I…I’m sorry for ignoring you earlier when I walked by. I was afraid he’d make fun of you just like he makes fun of everyone else in our family.”

_Drip, drip, drip, drip_

“I miss you so much and I need your guidance more than ever. I wish you were here. Things would be a whole lot better if you were.”

Sokka wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and tell her about all of his problems, to ramble on and on and on like he did to the Weirwood tree, but tears had started to spring to his eyes as the grief slowly crept in, and he could no longer bear to look at his mother’s face.

“Bye, mom. I’ll get you some new flowers soon.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and continued out, wiping at his cheeks furiously. He always hated leaving her down here in this gloomy fucking crypt. He imagined how lonely it must be, how his mom must yearn for the sky and the snow and the bustling life of Winterfell.

Sokka was so caught up in his sorrow that he almost hurried right past Kodir’s statue, and he slowed to a stop despite his better judgement, thinking back to how Zuko had been paused here a few minutes ago. Without thinking anything of it, he tilted his head just as Zuko had done and strained his hears to listen. 

A faint scratching noise rose up above the echo of the leaking ceiling.

_Scratch scratch scratch_

_Drip, drip, drip_

_Scratch scratch scratch_

_Drip, drip, drip_

Ugh, elephant rats had gotten into the crypt. He’d have to tell his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! More elements of Game of Thrones worldbuilding being brought into this chapter, with a bit of ~angst~ thrown into the mix. I TRULY appreciate comments and kudos!! Anyone got any predictions for the future you want to share????


	6. The South Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The South does not forgive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Blood and gore, Animal death, mentions of rape/noncon, suicidal thoughts/mentions of attempted suicide, physical abuse

**VI.**

**THE SOUTH REMEMBERS**

The engagement necklace eventually came to feel more like a collar than a wedding promise.

Zuko’s hatred of it fluctuated from day to day, hour to hour. One moment he’d be admiring it in the mirror and the next he’d fight the urge to tear it from his neck and burn it to a crisp, and either way he despised the odd looks everyone gave it—southerners and northerners alike.

“Aww, Zuzu, he’s officially made you his little dog!” Azula laughed when she first saw it, nearly doubling over as she, Ozai, and Uncle Iroh all knelt around the Pai Sho table in Iroh’s quarters. Night had fallen since Sokka had showed Zuko the crypt, and Zuko had spent the entire day exploring the stronghold so he could put off this exact moment. “Does it have your name and the address of Winterfell on it? Or ‘If lost please return to Sokka Stark’?”

“Shut up!” Zuko snapped even as his face burned with embarrassment, and was quick to hide the necklace under the collar of his royal garb. “I have to wear it. It’s an important custom for all waterbender Houses.”

“Ugh, you’re already the Starks’ bitch and you haven’t even married him yet.”

“Quiet, Azula!” Ozai snapped, though the corners of his mouth tugged upward. He put down another piece on the Pai Sho board nonchalantly, forcing Uncle Iroh to reconsider his next move. “Zuko is behaving exactly as I ordered him to. You should strive to do the same; I know you’ve been trying to pick a fight with the Stark daughter.”

Azula’s face twisted and she looked away, and Zuko couldn’t help but preen at his father’s praise as he seated himself between Azula and Iroh at the Pai Sho table. A quick look at the game showed that Ozai was winning, but as Iroh finally decided his next move, Zuko knew he was letting his brother win on purpose—even Zuko, as horrible as he was at the game, had known that was not the best route to take.

“However,” Ozai began, and Zuko’s inflated ego withered faster than a flower in the noon sun, “That…engagement that you had with Sokka was unchaperoned. You should’ve known better and sent for Zhao to accompany you.”

“I’m sorry, father. We hadn’t really meant to meet. I was training by myself when he showed up.”

“That’s not an excuse. If you have no idea when Sokka Stark will or will not be in your company, you should have Zhao with you at all times as a precaution. Break this rule again, and you will be punished.”

“I understand, father.”

He actually didn’t understand, but would never tell Ozai that. Why bother sending Zhao along when Sokka’s personality in and of itself was a cockblock?

Iroh shot him a sideways glance, his expression soft and understanding, but Zuko pretended not to see.

He was forced to have dinner with Sokka that night, a little “lovers’ getaway” in one of the highest towers of Winterfell that had a view of the Weirwood grove and the tundra stretching out for miles and miles—Zuko could even make out some greenhouses in the distance. There was a table for two by one of the windows, decorated with a lavishly embroidered tablecloth and a silver candelabra, but somehow it managed to be the least romantic affair that Zuko had ever experienced in his life. He’d taken shits more romantic than this.

It didn’t help that Zhao was standing smugly at the door, soaking in the tension in the air like a sponge as Zuko and Sokka picked at their food in silence. The meal was edible, Zuko supposed, but horrifically bland; though the Starks could afford to import spices, the cooks had no idea how to use them, and what resulted was an oversalted slab of otter seal meat with a baffling hint of paprika and a pile of underseasoned vegetables next to it. This was the stuff Zuko was going to have to eat for the rest of his life. _For the rest. Of his. Fucking. Life._ Agni had a sick sense of humor.

In contrast, Sokka was scarfing down his own portions like a dire wolf, and Zuko couldn’t help but make a face as he daintily picked at his food and hoped Zhao would let him leave soon.

“So…” Zuko began when the quiet got particularly torturous, drumming his fingers against the table. “What do you like to do?”

“I like to train in swordsmanship, I suppose,” Sokka grumbled into his food, as if he’d been hoping that Zuko would’ve stayed quiet the whole time. “I’m a little bit into poetry, a little bit into drawing, just started learning archery, and…I like to ride, too.”

“That’s…nice.”

_Really? Sokka of all people is a poet?_ Zuko thought with barely-restrained amusement, forking another bite of food into his mouth and swallowing it without chewing. _I bet all his poems are about his dog or his horse._

“What about you? Got any interesting hobbies?”

“I practice firebending, and I read when I’m able. Sometimes I play Pai Sho with my uncle. I also train with swords, too—I prefer to dual wield, and they’re…a lot smaller than the swords you southerners use.”

“Sounds cool. Who do you train with?”

“Piandao Dondarrion of Shu Jing.”

“Wow, you’re training with someone from House Dondarrion? I’ve always heard rumors they’re the best blacksmiths in the entire world, and even better swordsmen.”

“The rumors are true. Piandao is a master of the blade, and he’s taught me well.”

“Has he, now?” Sokka’s face twisted with the echo of a smile, showing a glint of pointed canine in the light of the candles. “We should put that to the test sometime. You and me, training yard—no bending, just swords.”

Zuko knew that Sokka just wanted an excuse to kick his ass into the dirt, but nevertheless nodded. He’d been training since he was nine, and none of the sword masters in the South who could’ve taught Sokka even held a candle to Piandao’s skill and wit.

“We have to wait until after the wedding, though.” The moment the word ‘wedding’ left Zuko’s mouth, Sokka rolled his eyes with a scowl. “We…wouldn’t want any cuts or bruises for the ceremony.”

“My dad just told me the wedding’s gonna be a week from now…they gotta go over battle plans and troop movements beforehand or something. That’s plenty of time to heal.”

“Not if I break your fucking nose and knock out your stupidly pointy teeth like how I want to.”

Sokka’s eyes went alight with fury, but before he could retort or lunge across the table, Zhao chimed in from his post at the door, “Prince Zuko! How uncouth of you to speak in such a manor, especially to your betrothed! Apologize now or I’ll tell your father!”

Zuko would rather deepthroat both of his swords at the same time than apologize for what he’d said; his mother hadn’t raised a liar. Nevertheless, he plastered on the most sickly-sweet smile he could manage and stated, “I’m very sorry, Lord Stark. My emotions got the best of me, and I wrongly lashed out at you without provocation. I look forward to sparring with you in a very polite and honorable manner.”

“Likewise,” Sokka replied through gritted teeth. His knuckles had gone white around his silverware. “So, while we wait for the wedding to pass, is there anything else you’d like to do in the meantime? Perhaps I could teach you to ride, or we could take a walk in the gardens—”

Zuko turned to stare out the window as Sokka listed off activities that sounded about as fun as watching paint dry, his eyes catching on the vibrant red leaves of the Weirwood grove. “I’d like to do some exploring.”

Sokka’s eyes followed where Zuko was looking before he nearly choked on his own food, hacking and spluttering. Zuko prayed to the spirits he would suffocate and die on a stupid piece of seal meat right then and there, but his prayers went unanswered like they usually did.

“No. Absolutely not. You can’t go to the Weirwood grove,” he coughed.

“Why not?” Zuko demanded. “My uncle told me many fantastical stories about it. I want to see it for myself.”

“You could get hurt. I won’t allow it.”

“What, you think I’m going to trip over and hit my head? I’m not helpless or stupid, Sokka. Maybe we can go there together with our horses and have a civil conversation for once.”

“Zhao would need a horse, too, then,” Sokka pointed out, dipping his head in acknowledgement to the commander, who dutifully returned it. “And…I don’t think the Weirwood would take kindly to two firebenders entering its grove.”

“Forests don’t have feelings. They can’t like or dislike anyone.”

“This forest does. It has a…very personal grudge against House Targaryen.”

“Oh, _sure_. I bet. Sounds very convenient that your talking trees have a grudge against my family.”

Sokka bared his teeth and stabbed his seal meat a bit more vehemently than necessary as Zuko and Zhao chuckled in unison, and the rest of the dinner was spent in charged, stifling silence.

\---

The next morning, Zuko awoke in a horrifically sour mood. He was sharing a guest room with his uncle—his father hadn’t seen the reason why Zuko would get his own room when he’d be moving into Sokka’s quarters halfway through the trip—and laid awake stewing for the better part of an hour.

The bed was comfy, he had to admit; the many furs and pelts that had been thrown over the linens did a good job to keep out the cold, and the servants had kept the fire roaring all night. It was cozier than his room back home—less austere and gaudy—but it was something that he’d only like to indulge in for maybe a week before returning to his dragon tapestries, silk sheets, and gilded walls.

When Zuko finally mustered the motivation to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes, he found that his uncle was awake and sitting in a high-backed chair by the fire, his nose in a book and a cup of tea steaming on the small table beside him.

“Good morning, Prince Zuko,” he said without looking up. “You slept for quite a while.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“Noon?!” Zuko threw the furs off of him and leapt out of bed, scrambling over to one of the many trunks stacked around the room where he was keeping his clothes. “Why didn’t you wake me up before?! Father is going to be furious—”

“Don’t worry. I told him that you woke up and decided to delve into your studies for the better part of the morning.” He stated, and Zuko let out a shaky breath of relief as he dressed, fighting away nausea as he tied the engagement necklace around his throat as the finishing touch. “Breakfast is on the bedside table—some soup and vegetables, though you’ll probably have to warm it yourself.”

Zuko took the tray and brought it over to the chair next to Iroh’s, heating up the tepid food with a thought and soaking in the heat from the fireplace. The soup was okay, not as good as the soup back home, but he actually found that he loved the vegetables—properly seasoned, for once.

“How was your sleep?” Iroh asked as he thumbed through another page of the book.

“It was fine.” He slept like a rock because he’d been tossing and turning for hours before he’d finally managed to drift off. “How about yours?”

“It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while. There’s something about the South that makes me fall asleep in the blink of an eye.”

“Maybe it’s the hypothermia,” Zuko muttered into a spoonful of soup.

“Zuko.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t, but he always indulged his uncle with an apology because refusing would just upset him even further.

“You need to be more careful about saying such things, especially since your father wants you to accompany Sokka for the rest of the day.”

“What?!” Zuko cried, nearly spilling his breakfast all over himself. “Why?”

“The whispers that’ve been floating around Winterfell have finally reached him, and he’s determined to put an end to it; people have been noticing your terrible dislike of one another and are wondering if the wedding is in danger. It’s the gossip of the century.”

“Well, people need to mind their business!” Zuko hissed. “They’re not the ones stuck in an arranged marriage with the most useless, annoying piece of shit—”

“Zuko!”

“It’s true! Every single time we speak he does his best to piss me off, talking down to me like I’m a kid or insulting our family! I’m not going to take it lying down like the meek little husband everyone wants me to be, so I yell right back! What exactly do you want me to do?”

Iroh shook his head and took another sip of his tea. “I don’t exactly think you’re innocent in this matter, either. I spoke to Sokka yesterday, and he was almost just as insulted by you as you seem to be by him.”

“Good! Glad to know he’s gotten a taste of his own medicine!”

“You can’t fight anger with anger,” Iroh snapped. “That will only make it worse. Both of you are only making it _worse!_ For the first time in my life, I finally agree with what my brother is trying to do; if you spend enough time together, you’ll start trying to work _with_ one another instead of against.”

“Yeah, but I’m going to have to marry him and—”

“You don’t have to fall in love, Zuko! You don’t even have to _like_ him! You both just have to understand and respect one another—only then can you live your life together happily.”

“But I don’t _want_ to live my life with him!” Zuko flung his tray onto the table as he leapt to his feet, uncaring of how his soup sloshed over the sides of the bowl and his vegetables scattered all over the place. “I don’t want to get married, I don’t want to live out my life in a miserable icy wasteland, and I don’t want to be buried in the same crypt with him among a bunch of his ancestors who’d hate me just as much as he does! I want to go home, uncle! I just want to go home!”

Iroh sighed, his eyes slipping closed. “Go find Sokka. Try to be civil. Try. For me.”

Zuko’s mouth twisted as his hands began to steam in the air. “I wish you hadn’t pulled me away from that window.”

“Don’t you dare say that.”

“You know what? Fuck you. I wish I was dead! _I wish I was fucking dead!_ ”

“Zuko—!”

He was already storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him, wiping furiously at his eyes as he took off through the stony halls and burst through the doors into the snow. The anger and shame made his skin feel like it was burning, and were the only things keeping the shock of the cold at bay.

Zuko was a liar and a coward. He could rant all he wanted about how he wished he was dead, but he didn’t have the guts to carry through with it. He was too afraid of his father, too afraid of what would come after. Sure, his body would be shipped back to the north because he wasn’t yet Sokka’s husband, but it would be in dishonor—he wouldn’t be buried with the Targaryens who’d come before him, and he wouldn’t be honored in his family’s history books. His name would be slandered until the ends of time as the petulant boy who refused to marry a Stark.

Already, he was feeling guilty for yelling at his uncle when he was only trying to help, and resolved himself to apologizing later when he felt like he was ready. In the meantime, he was going to find Sokka Stark like his father had ordered. They’d spend time together, it would be miserable, and then they’d part ways in the evening and that would be that. What did uncle not understand about people just…not getting along? Everyone wasn’t meant to like everyone; that’s just the way the world was.

Perhaps he should’ve sought out Zhao first so he could chaperone, but his eyes were a little red and he didn’t want the man ratting to his father that he’d been crying. That would most certainly get him punished.

 _I’ll find Zhao once I meet up with Sokka and get the hell over myself,_ Zuko thought dejectedly.

The first place Zuko could think to check was the courtyard with the totem poles, and was unsurprised to find it empty…like, who would want to spend their free time hanging out with dead relatives? The huge spires of carved wood stood sorrow vigil over the snow-dusted benches and withered branches that snaked up the walls, and Zuko hurried out as quickly as he could without bothering to check the crypt. He had _no idea_ where Starks normally liked to hang out, so he spent a while checking in courtyards, peering into the windows of shops, and even mustering up the courage to sneak a peek into the vibrant greenhouse gardens…all with no luck.

After a little bit of help from a kindly passerby who’d noticed his frustration, Zuko finally found Sokka hanging around the stables, gathered amongst a group of other water tribe boys and their horses. Yue was with them, wagging her tail and leaping up on the boys excitedly like any normal old dog, and the horses were saddled up and ready to go somewhere, pawing at the ground and whickering to one another impatiently. Zuko shoved his nervousness to the side as he tilted up his chin and trudged over.

One of the other boys was the first to notice him, and fire tickled the back of Zuko’s throat as the boy’s grin melted off of his face. He nudged Sokka, who was chatting animatedly with the guy next to him about some useless nonsense, and murmured something to him. Sokka’s expression went cold like a fire that had just been doused.

“Good morning,” Zuko greeted as politely as he could, bowing to the group and purposefully ignoring the way the boys’ relaxed stances went rigid. “What are you up to?”

“We’re going out on a hunt,” Sokka told him, pausing to shush Yue as a growl bubbled up in the dire wolf’s throat. “The kitchens just told us they were out of arctic yak meat, and some scouts spotted a herd a bit east of here, past the Weirwood grove. We’re aiming to be back before dinner.”

“That sounds cool. Can I come?” He didn’t actually want to come, but he couldn’t help stirring the pot a little; watching all the boys squirm uncomfortably and exchange awkward looks brought on an inexplicable delight in him.

_Man, perhaps I’m more like Azula than I thought._

Sokka rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at his friends for support, and Zuko barely restrained a laugh as all of them turned away in unison and pretend to occupy themselves with their clothes or their horses. Finally, Sokka admitted hesitantly, “I…don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Well, why not?” Zuko did his best impression of a scorned lover, folding his arms over his chest with a huff. “I have a horse.”

“Yeah, a horse that you have no idea how to ride. Hunting yaks can be really dangerous, and you don’t have the skill to maneuver in a way that’ll keep you and your horse safe.”

“That’s alright, I can just watch,” Zuko replied, offering a crooked smile as Sokka and his friends withered where they stood; they could make tons of excuses as to why Zuko couldn’t come to hunt, but to watch? There was no way they could weasel their way out of that one without saying aloud what everyone was thinking.

Sokka’s jaw was clenched so hard that the muscles were twitching, but nevertheless he agreed, “Fine. But only to watch. You can’t get in the way.”

“I won’t! I’ll make sure to stay far from the action.”

“Yeah. Okay…yeah. Sounds good.” Zuko’s eyes tracked the way Sokka worried his lip between his teeth as he gave Grey Wind’s reins to one of his friends. “Follow me.”

Zuko took a few steps forward but hesitated, eying the way Yue bristled and bared her teeth as if preparing to leap at him again, and Sokka snapped, “Yue, sit! Stay.”

The dire wolf snarled but nevertheless sat, glaring daggers at Zuko as he passed. He felt the wolf’s gaze and the gazes of the other boys burning holes into his back, and heard the whispers left in his wake…though he tried his best to ignore them.

He and Sokka strolled through the churned-up mud and snow in a silence that wasn’t _too_ awkward, and Zuko did his best not to wrinkle his nose at the stench. Horses poked their heads out to greet Sokka—big horses and little horses, skinny ones and fat ones, gigantic farm drafts and tubby riding ponies—and it made Zuko wonder if there was anything in the South that _didn’t_ like this guy, or if he was the only one.

“You can pet them, if you want,” Sokka said, demonstrating as he reached up to pat the neck of a horse whose head reached higher than two men stacked on top of each other. “They’re harmless.”

Komodo rhinos and ostrich horses didn’t have nearly this much variety—and let’s be honest, weren’t all that cute—and Zuko was shocked at how friendly they were as he pet their noses and rubbed their necks.

“Wait, not that one—!”

Zuko leapt back with a yelp and he nearly got his fingers taken off by a white-and-brown-splotched horse that had lunged out of its stall. He’d been so close to blasting fire at it that it was kind of embarrassing, and he flushed darkly as Sokka clamped his hand on his shoulder and steered him away.

“That’s Painted Lady,” Sokka explained as they continued down the line. “She’s Katara’s horse and doesn’t really like anyone else besides her, so…try not to feel too bad about it.”

“Ah, but the lack of approval from a horse is absolutely crippling my self-esteem.”

Sokka threw back his head and laughed at the same time that Zuko chuckled at his own joke, and the two of them exchanged a shocked glance before looking away from each other angrily.

Turtleduck’s stall was at the far end of the line, right next to where Grey Wind would be, and the white stallion poked his head out to whicker a greeting as they approached. There was a plaque hanging on the door that had “Silver Dancer” written on it in shimmering white script, and Zuko couldn’t help but make a face at it; why did southerners have to name their steeds the most pompous bullshit ever? If Zuko had to meet _one more_ horse named “adjective about their appearance + random noun” he was going to burn this whole place to ashes.

“Okay, so I’m going to teach you how to tack him up,” Sokka declared as he unlatched the door and shouldered his way inside, pressing gently against Turtleduck’s chest so the horse would move out of the way. Zuko followed him inside hesitantly, making the space a bit cramped for all three of them to fit. “Have you ever tacked up anything before, like a Komodo rhino or an ostrich horse?”

“I don’t even know what tack is.”

Sokka snorted with a barely-restrained smirk, heading over to a big cabinet set into the wall and opening it up. Inside was a beautifully crafted saddle and bridle, along with some other equipment, and Zuko’s breath hitched when he realized that the seal leather had been dyed in reds, oranges, and golds instead of traditional southern blues.

“The first thing you want to do is put a saddle pad on him,” Sokka explained, pulling out a thick, beautifully woven cloth emblazoned with water tribe patterns. “This will make sure that the saddle doesn’t rub him the wrong way.”

Sokka threw the saddle pad over Turtleduck’s back with flourish, showing how far up it should be—he was using terms like “withers” and “croup” that Zuko kind of tuned out—and how to make sure it was even on both sides.

“So what you want to do,” Sokka heaved a great breath as he picked up the saddle and plopped it on top of the saddle pad, “is to make sure it’s not strapped on too tightly, or else he won’t be able to breathe. You see this thing? It’s called the girth, and the method I use to check if it’s too tight is to…”

Zuko couldn’t help but allow his gaze to flit to Sokka’s lips as he talked. Sokka had been too busy being an asshole beforehand for Zuko to notice that…he did have a pretty nice mouth. It looked soft, and the way it moved while Sokka explained all these technical terms made Zuko’s face flush slightly. Though he’d rather be anywhere else than betrothed to this man, at least the spirits had been merciful enough to make him nice to look at.

“Hey. Zuko. Are you even listening?”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, I’m listening. The thing about the…the girdle.”

“Girth.”

“Yes, the girth.”

Was it hot in here? Zuko was suddenly sweating like crazy despite how his breath was steaming in the air.

Next, Sokka showed Zuko how to put on the bridle, and before he knew it, they were leading Turtleduck out of the stall and into the aisle. The stallion did look stunning, and his long, mane reached almost down to his knees in a wavy curtain of white hair.

“When you start riding for real, I’ll teach you how to braid it so you don’t worry about him tripping,” Sokka told him. “A fall can be deadly for a horse—if they break one of their legs, its over, so you have to make sure to be careful.”

Zuko nodded along, only partly listening as he stroked Turtleduck’s nose and marveled at the horse’s big black eyes. “How do I get on?”

“You can use a mounting block, but I can just give you a boost.”

Sokka knelt on the ground and cupped his hands, and Zuko offered him a nod of thanks as he used the provided step to boost himself into the saddle, floundering gracelessly like a seal flopping onto shore before finally sitting upright. He’d actually been excited for this, but now that he was on Turtleduck’s back, he wasn’t so sure; he was…a lot higher up off the ground than he thought he’d be.

Turtleduck shifted from foot to foot and tossed his head, and Zuko froze up as Sokka handed him the reins and helped him stick his feet into the stirrups.

“Okay, so I’m gonna try to squeeze in a lifetime’s worth of riding instruction into a few sentences. So…uh…you want to try to use your heels more than your hands—don’t yank on his mouth. It’s easier to do this if your heels are down. Also, you want to try to keep calm no matter what, because horses can smell fear like dolphin piranhas can smell blood in the water, and if you’re afraid, he’s gonna get afraid. You also might want to—”

“I don’t think I’m going to absorb any of this.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s head back to the others.”

Sokka turned on his heel and strode back up the aisle, and Zuko’s eyes widened when Turtleduck stayed put, nosing at the snow and not seeming to have any intentions of moving. Zuko was so used to seeing Grey Wind and Yue trail behind Sokka that he hadn’t thought to consider that perhaps all animals didn’t just follow Sokka around like lovesick puppies.

“Wait, don’t leave!” Zuko cried. “How do I make him go?”

“Press your heels against his sides,” Sokka called over his shoulder. “You can also try clucking or whistling to him.”

Zuko looked down at his hands with dread pooling in his stomach, and before he could convince himself to just get off the horse and give up before he broke his neck and died, he gently pressed his heels against Turtleduck’s sides. The stallion lurched forward into a walk the moment Zuko’s boots touched his skin, and a squeak of surprise escaped his throat as he nearly toppled off the back of the horse. Ahead of him, Sokka and his friends were mounting up as well—Zuko chuckled to himself as he watched Sokka scoop Yue up to sit in front of him on the saddle—and once Zuko reached them, they all steered their horses around and urged them forward. It was so weird to feel the sinuous movement of an animal beneath him; unlike the ostrich horses and Komodo rhinos he’d ridden, Turtleduck was an incredibly smooth ride and almost seemed to glide across the ground.

“You okay?” Sokka asked as he pulled Grey Wind up alongside him. The horse was so large that Sokka was about a foot higher up than Zuko was, and Sokka’s voice was partially muffled by Yue’s fur.

“Yeah. He’s…actually kind of cool. I’m just afraid he might throw me off.”

“Don’t worry about it. I made sure he was almost bombproof; normally, I wouldn’t trust a newbie like you on a stallion, but my father said it would be rude to give you a gelding.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, uh…” Sokka trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck as the throngs of people parted to marvel at the group picking its way through the streets. “A gelding is a stallion that’s been…um…castrated. To make them calmer and easier to handle. Giving you a gelding would be, uh…an insult to your masculinity.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not like I would’ve figured it out anyway.”

Sokka chuckled quietly to himself. “Definitely.”

The guards opened up the gates for them with flourish, calling down farewells and benedictions from the battlements, and the group set out into the snow. Zuko couldn’t help but look back at Winterfell as the gates slammed shut behind them, wondering if he should’ve gotten Zhao first after all…it was too late to turn back now, but Zuko wasn’t all that excited about the punishment he would face afterward if he was caught.

The tundra did its best to distract him; the wind was much stronger here, whipping at his face and tearing at his clothes, and it didn’t take long for Zuko to start shivering. The air was so cold and pure that it made his lungs burn when he breathed it in, to the point where it was almost dizzying.

“You might want to take out that topknot,” Sokka suggested over the wind. “You wouldn’t want that little crown thingy to fall out.”

Zuko’s heart sank at the thought of losing such a precious heirloom in the snow, and was quick to untie his hair and stuff the ribbon and the fire ornament into his pocket. His hair now whipped around him— _ugh, it’s going to take so long to brush out all the knots_ —but Sokka was giving him an odd look, like he was seeing him for the first time. It was only then that Zuko realized that Sokka had never seen Zuko with his hair down, and he quickly looked away before things could get weird. 

“Do you think we could pick up the pace?” one of Sokka’s friends called over the wind. “At this rate, we’ll all freeze to death before we get to the herd!”

“You think you can stay on if we go a little faster?” Sokka asked Zuko, and Zuko hesitated before nodding. He actually didn’t think he could do it, but he didn’t want to hold everyone up. “The key is to sit back and to squeeze with your legs. Make sure not to pull on his mouth.”

Before Zuko could think to reply, he was whistling to Grey Wind, who took off much faster than what would be considered “a little.” The other horses joined in suit, and Zuko didn’t even have to do anything as Turtleduck raced after them so he wouldn’t be left behind by the herd. Zuko’s cry of shock and excitement was lost to the wind as Turtleduck pounded through the snow, his hoofbeats sounding like the thrum of a gigantic heart as he easily kept pace with the others around him.

Zuko had to constantly remind himself to breathe, to not lock up, to focus on sitting back and squeezing with his legs—it was very tempting to just allow himself to pitch forward and cling to Turtleduck’s neck for dear life.

“You’re pretty good for someone who just started riding!” Sokka laughed, looking so at ease in the saddle that it was almost godlike. He was holding the reins in one hand and gesturing with the other, allowing his hips to rock with the motion of Grey Wind’s canter. “I mean, you’re kind of flopping around a little, but at least you haven’t fallen off!”

“Thanks,” Zuko retorted with a roll of his eyes, but he found himself smiling all the same. How long had it been since he’d felt this much exhilaration? Since he’d felt this _alive?_ He couldn’t remember.

It was only then that he looked up and realized that the Weirwood grove was looming ahead, a mass of swirling black, white, and crimson that stood out starkly against the snow, and Zuko couldn’t help but marvel at it as they veered to the left to go around. His curiosity burned so brightly that it made his chest ache, and he spared a furtive glance at Sokka only to find that the boy was looking right back at him. As if reading Zuko’s thoughts, he scowled and shook his head.

Zuko couldn’t help but feel a little indignant at that. He was going to be a Stark soon anyway, so why was he bothering trying to stop him from going to the Weirwood grove? There was _no way_ that a group of trees could possibly have a grudge against his family specifically—Sokka probably just didn’t trust Zuko not to burn it down. He wasn’t a child! He could control himself.

The bitterness only festered even further when the arctic yak herd came into view, about six dozen strong, and all of the riders slowed to a halt. Turtleduck seemed perfectly content to just keep on going without everyone, and Zuko had to pull back hard on the reins in order for him to stop.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Sokka told him, unsheathing his sword and catching a feather-adorned spear that one of his friends tossed to him. Yue leapt off of the saddle and shook herself off, seeming like a disheveled actress whose hair had been knocked all out of place. “You should stay at about this distance; don’t come any closer. You don’t want to be caught in a bad situation if the yaks decide to stampede toward you.”

“Sounds good,” Zuko replied, hoping his mounting anger wasn’t showing on his face.

Sokka took him by surprise by offering him a smile as he kicked Grey Wind into a gallop and took off toward the herd with the others and Yue, and it took all of Zuko’s strength to wrestle Turtleduck to a stop when the stallion tried to follow. Turtleduck screeched indignantly, pawing at the ground, and Zuko muttered curses under his breath as his steed refused to settle down.

It didn’t help that a low rumble had begun to shake the earth beneath them, the sound of countless hooves pounding against the snow as the riders approached and whipped up the yak herd into disarray. The action was so far off that even if Zuko _had_ wanted to come to watch, it would’ve been a pretty shitty view, and it didn’t take long for him to grow tired of sitting there shivering in the saddle.

Turtleduck didn’t seem to like sitting still either, and Zuko decided he’d ride around on the outskirts to make sure the stallion kept warm—though the horses in the South were bred to have thick coats to keep the chill at bay, they weren’t immune to its effects. Before he could think better of it, he clucked to Turtleduck and steered him away from the hunting party, heading in the direction they’d come from.

This, of course, set them on course to the Weirwood grove, and Zuko cast a furtive glance back at the scattering yaks. He couldn’t see Sokka among the whirlwind of shaggy bodies and supposed a little afternoon ride through the forest couldn’t _possibly_ hurt anyone. The only thing he had to worry about was Yue; the wolf had headed to the outskirts, too, so she wouldn’t be trampled and could wait to help the others go in for the kill, and she was watching Zuko with an intensity that made his heart flutter nervously.

“Do you want to go on an adventure?” Zuko asked Turtleduck despite how he could feel Yue’s eyes on his back, and the horse let out a heavy breath that made a huge cloud of steam puff in the air. “I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry, we’ll be back before the hunt is over—water tribe people are all about killing the ‘weakest one’ or some shit like that so they don’t hurt the breeding population. It’ll take them a while to weed one out, and then they have to kill it and tie it to a horse or two to bring back and…all that other stupid stuff.”

Thankfully, the yaks had been really close to the Weirwood, and it didn’t take long before Zuko was pulling Turtleduck to a stop, staring up at the branches swaying hypnotically in the wind. The leaves were rustling softly, making it sound like there were thousands of voices whispering at once, and Zuko had to swallow down his unease so it didn’t fester. Before he could think better of it, he clucked for Turtleduck to head onward.

The stallion didn’t move. His head was raised and his ears were perked in uneasy vigilance, his muscles rigid beneath the saddle. Zuko clucked to him again, nudging him with his heels like Sokka had told him to do, and to his frustration Turtleduck actually took a few steps backward with a rumbling grunt.

“We’re just going in for a second to take a quick peek, okay?” Zuko pressed his heels a bit harder. “Come on, you can do it. It’s just a forest. Nothing to worry about.”

Turtleduck lurched forward but stalled and stepped back, like a boat rocking on the sea, and after a while of this, Zuko gritted his teeth and gave the stallion a vicious kick. Turtleduck leapt forward into the Weirwood grove with a startled cry, taking off through the trees at a hard gallop, and had Zuko not yanked on the reins to slow him down, he probably would’ve toppled right out of the saddle and watched his horse run off, never to be seen again.

“Good boy.” Zuko patted Turtleduck’s neck. His heart was pounding at a million miles an hour, his breath billowing in the air as he struggled to keep his voice even. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

It was…quite a lot warmer here than out in the open. The bitter South Pole gusts filtered through the trees as a gentle wind, carrying along leaves and twinkling snow that danced and twirled through the air like the scales of shimmering fish, and Zuko’s face flushed rosy as the chill nipped at him. The foliage cast beautiful patterns of shadow across the ground, and the trees were packed so densely together that it made the grove look like it went on for miles and miles.

No monsters or spirits jumped out to attack them, the ground didn’t swallow them up; it was just a plain, ordinary forest, just like Zuko had suspected. Nevertheless, Turtleduck was still timid as he picked his way through the snow, his ears on a swivel as he maneuvered around rocks and hauled himself up shallow slopes.

Despite how Zuko remembered his uncle telling him how there were always birds singing and critters yapping here, the Weirwood grove was deathly silent save for the crunch of snow beneath Turtleduck’s hooves and the metallic rattle of the stallion chewing on his bit. Zuko wasn’t surprised that his uncle had been wrong, considering how he’d never even ventured into this place, and pride swelled in Zuko’s chest when he realized he’d been able to do something his uncle couldn’t.

He was the first Targaryen to enter this place since the Great Conquest, and had this not been an unauthorized outing, he would’ve loved to tell his father about it later; no doubt he’d be proud of his son for conquering an obstacle that no other Targaryen could. Angry spirits his ass; there must’ve been a scientific explanation as to why this place was able to flourish in the South Pole when no other forest could, and Zuko was going to get to the bottom of it.

He leaned out of the saddle so he could run his fingers over the gorgeous, swirling black patterns on the trees that looked like hundreds of unblinking eyes. Had the Starks planted them, or was there a little bit of soil beneath this part of the ice that had allowed them to flourish in a way that no other forest could? They all seemed so ancient, like they’d seen so much of the world go by as time slowly shuffled along, and it wouldn’t be hard to believe that this grove had been here since the dawn of time.

The dense woods eventually opened up into a small clearing, bathed in silver light and littered with oddly-shaped stones that looked like they’d once been carved wolves but had since been battered relentlessly by the elements. He would’ve loved to dismount to examine them closer, but he was worried that something would spook Turtleduck and the horse would run off, leaving him stranded. Instead, he steered the stallion as close as he could to one of the misshapen rocks, pressing his palm against what he could only assume would’ve been the wolf’s snout.

It was…surprisingly warm to the touch, and Zuko’s brow furrowed.

He imagined the Starks of centuries old, or maybe even the people that came before the Starks—the First Men—placing these stones here. He imagined what they must’ve looked like when they were new, their stone fur rippling and their teeth bared at some invisible enemy. Perhaps there would’ve been flags and banners here, waving gently in the breeze as the early peoples lived off these woods and made it their home.

“Maybe these were even here during one of those Long Nights that Sokka was talking about,” Zuko suggested to Turtleduck. “Maybe they used to have a spot for torches to go, so people could navigate in the darkness…or maybe they were charms for protection from those zombie people.”

Turtleduck didn’t offer up a response, and Zuko had to admit that he kind of wished he’d brought someone else with him, like Uncle Iroh. It was much cooler to explore when you had someone else by your side, but Turtleduck was proving to be an okay partner as of that moment; despite not being able to talk, it also meant that he couldn’t offer up sarcastic comments or annoying insults or unsolicited advice.

“I think we’ve been here long enough to get a good feel for what’s around, don’t you think? Let’s head back before Sokka notices, and then we can sneak out again tonight or tomorrow.”

Zuko used his heels to guide Turtleduck around and back the way they came. As they reached the edge of the clearing and slipped into the trees, Zuko swore he heard a noise like grinding stone. His head whipped around, but there was nothing there…but hadn’t one of those statues been facing the other way?

He shook his head clear. Sokka and Uncle Iroh’s stories were trying to get to him, and he refused to let that happen. Turtleduck was a lot calmer heading out of the woods than he’d been heading in, and it was only then that Zuko realized he was a complete and total idiot; the reason why the horse had been so scared was because he’d never _seen_ a forest before—his whole life, all he’d ever known was man-made fortresses and open tundra.

“Sorry for stressing you out,” Zuko apologized even though he knew the horse wouldn’t be able to understand him. “I didn’t realize that this adventure was going to be super new for both of us.”

Turtleduck snorted, slowing to a stop as they approached a bubbling brook that snaked through the woods like someone had peeled the rind from the sky and laid it down in a silvery-blue ribbon across the ground. The water made the air steam around it, and Zuko’s mouth parted in awe when he realized that all of the snow within a foot’s radius of the banks had melted—grass chutes and flowers growing in impossible bloom among the exposed dirt. Turtleduck stopped to nibble at the foliage and take a few sips of water.

_Okay, so there’s definitely dirt here—that’s why the trees can grow. And the warm springs running beneath this place must assure that the roots don’t freeze!_

Despite his elation that he’d figured out the secrets of the Weirwood grove…Zuko didn’t remember passing a brook before. He didn’t even remember _hearing_ one.

His gut churned with unease, and he craned his neck in search of a sliver of light that would indicate the exit from where they’d come, but the trees were so closely packed together that it was impossible to see. The swirling black eyes on the bark bored into him balefully.

“This place’s a lot bigger when you’re inside of it,” Zuko commented nervously to Turtleduck, fiddling with the stallion’s flowing white mane. “I just hope we aren’t lost.”

Turtleduck responded by raising his head from the brook and tensing as if to bolt, his eyes zeroing in on something to their left. Zuko made desperate shushing noises as he turned to where the horse was looking, fear welling up in his chest as he conjured up images of dire wolves or polar bear dogs, but when he finally trained his good eye on the spot that Turtleduck seemed so terrified of, he found that there was nothing there.

Despite Zuko’s desperate attempts to console, Turtleduck let out a piercing whinny and skittered back, stumbling on some outcroppings of rocks and nearly tipping over onto his back and crushing Zuko like a bug.

“Shh! There’s nothing there! There’s _nothing_ there! Calm down! Agni, I should’ve just left you at Winterfell and taken a Komodo rhino!”

He couldn’t die here. For one thing, death via horse was fucking humiliating, but another thing was that no one would ever find him; they all thought his stupid forest was magic and would attack them, and those who weren’t afraid of it would never venture inside to look for a Targaryen such as himself. His body would be buried in the snow and would only be uprooted when someone tripped over an exposed part of his skull. Perhaps it was an upgrade from marrying Sokka, but spirits forbid anyone recognized him and the whole world found out that Prince Zuko Targaryen hadn’t disappeared under mysterious circumstances, but had instead been crushed by a horse. His name would be slandered for the rest of eternity.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a low, the raspy cry, and Turtleduck reared up onto his hind legs with a screech as a raven burst from the trees and alighted on a low-hanging branch nearby. It was the first sign of life that Zuko had seen here, and before he could second guess himself, he urged Turtleduck toward it.

The stallion tried to resist—good spirits, it was just a damn raven; what could possibly be so scary about it?—and after persistent kicking on Zuko’s part, he finally obeyed with a huff. The raven watched the both of them, tilting its head, and Zuko gasped softly when he realized that, upon closer inspection, it had three eyes.

Didn’t the Starks have a thing about a three-eyed raven? Wasn’t that something important? He couldn’t remember. It was probably just some weird, crazy mutation that this bird just so happened to have, and he tilted his chin up to meet its gaze—all three of its eyes were beady and black, almost blending into its feathers like oil.

The raven clicked its beak, leaning forward until it was almost tipping off of the branch, and Zuko couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous it looked. Without thinking, he shot a blast of fire at it and laughed as it took off with a screech and disappeared into the treetops.

The temperature dropped so fast that the moisture in Zuko’s eyes turned to frost, and he didn’t even have time to draw breath to scream before a gigantic wolf was bursting from the trees, its eyes glowing blue and its fur looking like it’d been woven from shadow. It was three times bigger than Sokka’s dire wolf, and when it opened its mouth it revealed an extra row of teeth behind the first.

Turtleduck squealed, stamping at it in terror before taking off faster than an arrow being shot from a crossbow. Zuko could only cling to the saddle desperately, looking over his shoulder and watching as the wolf raised its nose to the sky and let out a screeching howl. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard, and it wasn’t long before another howl came from the east. Then another from the west…more and more until the whole forest was vibrating with a chorus of wolves.

Turtleduck somehow managed to run faster, ramming through the underbrush and stumbling down rocky slops without any regard for Zuko’s precarious balance on his back, and by that point the horse was probably getting them more lost than they’d been in the first place.

“Come on! Help me out, here! Can’t you be at least a little bit more careful?” Zuko snapped as he had to duck beneath a low-hanging branch. “I thought you passed a test or something to prove yourself a good companion!”

He yanked on the reins so hard that Turtleduck’s head snapped back, and Zuko yelped when the horse gave a frustrated bellow and jerked his head forward, ripping the reins out of Zuko’s fumbling grip. Perhaps he should’ve let go, should’ve allowed himself to slip from the saddle and wait for the wolves to devour him, but his heart was flying fast and heavy in his chest and all he could think about was rotting in this forest forever, dishonored and forgotten.

With nothing better to do, he seized a hold of Turtleduck’s flowing mane and clung to his neck for dear life as the stallion galloped on.

It wasn’t long before another wolf leapt into their path with a spine-tingling roar, and Turtleduck nearly flipped Zuko over his head when he skidded to a stop and scrambled back in the direction they’d come. There were two more wolves waiting for them, and Turtleduck swerved to the left to avoid them.

The wolves were actively giving chase now, and Zuko could hear them barking and yipping to one another from the trees. There were a couple behind them and a few racing on either side, moving like liquid as their tongues lolled out of their mouth and their teeth glinted in sunlight.

One of them got close enough to leap up onto Turtleduck’s hindquarters, its claws and teeth digging in to his pearly white coat, and Turtleduck shrieked, kicking out desperately while still trying to run.

“Get away from him!” Zuko roared, blasting the wolf with a column of fire, and it yelped, tumbling into the snow and clawing at its face as its brethren leapt over it in hot pursuit.

Turtleduck’s blood was now running down his legs and leaving a dotted trail of red in their wake, and Zuko clenched his teeth; they’d never be able to outrun them now, not with the scent of blood to guide them. Without any other options, Zuko took a deep breath and conjured fire to his hands, hurling it at the wolves the moment they came close—but it seemed as though whenever he managed to gun down one wolf, three more took its place. There was no way this was an ordinary pack, no way this could be explained by anything but the spirit world.

“I should’ve listened to Sokka,” Zuko snapped as he blasted another wolf with a well-aimed hit, “Why am I always getting myself into a fucking mess?” He turned back around to look where Turtleduck was running, but there was no sign that they’d be out of the grove anytime soon. “Good spirits, how big is this place?! Fuck, this can’t get any worse.”

And then they reached a steep downward incline.

The spirits just loved proving him wrong, didn’t they?

Turtleduck let out a piercing shriek as he careened down the slope, unable to slow himself down as his hooves scrambled at the snow, and Zuko couldn’t help but scream along with him while he held on for dear life. Just as they reached the bottom, Turtleduck made a move to plant his feet back firmly under himself…

The loose reins, which had been flopping around uselessly in the meantime, tangled around his back foot.

There came a sickening crunch of the bones snapping, and Turtleduck wailed, collapsing into a heap onto the ground and sending Zuko flying into the trunk of a tree. His head smacked against the bark so hard that stars exploded into his vision, and he groaned as he slid to the ground, the snow enveloping him like a deathly cold blanket.

_Get up get up get up you can’t die, not here, you can’t die here—_

He pried his eyes open and was met by a blurry, faded world. Thousands of swirling eyes bored into him. _This is your fault,_ they said. _You’re going to die and it’s going to be your fault. You think you know everything, but you’re just a child. You have no idea what the world is capable of. You know **nothing** , Zuko Targaryen._

A single tear escaped from Zuko’s eye and turned to frost on his cheeks, and a wave of nausea crashed into him as he hauled himself upright. The wolves had surrounded them, their glowing blue eyes shining like the eyes of the wights that Sokka had told him stories about. Zuko tried to summon his fire, but his head felt like someone had driven a metal spike through it, and only a pitiful ribbon of steam came to his fingertips.

He dragged himself over to Turtleduck, who was crying out softly, and threw his arms around his neck as the wolves closed in. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You did so good. I’m sorry I couldn’t get us out.”

It then dawned on him that he was going to be eaten alive. The flesh was going to be ripped from his bones and his organs would strewn across the ground all while he was still breathing. One of the worst ways to die, and he was staring it right in the face.

A wolf that was bigger than all the rest stepped forward, saliva dribbling from its shadowy jaws. Its face was the face of death, its claws and teeth shining in the watery light filtering down through the leaves.

“Please, please just let us go! I promise I’ll never come back, please—”

The wolf roared at him, spittle splattering across Zuko’s face, and he didn’t even have the capacity to be disgusted. All he felt was fear. Fear crawling up his throat and spine, leaping through his veins, and spurring his heart into a frantic rhythm. The wolf took a few steps closer, its paws crunching in the snow and its breath steaming in the air, and Zuko screwed his eyes shut and hugged Turtleduck tighter as it pried open its jaws and—

“No, stop!”

Zuko’s eyes snapped open just in time to see Yue bursting through the trees with a howl, Grey Wind hot on her heels. Sokka leapt off the horse’s back before he’d even come to a complete stop, racing over to Zuko and Turtleduck with his hands raised.

The wolves shifted nervously, and Zuko realized its because they knew him. He commanded respect among them. Even the biggest wolf had backed off slightly, its ears pinned back but its tail hovering lower to the ground.

“On behalf of House Stark, I sincerely apologize for this boy disturbing you.” His voice boomed like rolling thunder. “He…he’s my betrothed. We’re stuck in an arranged marriage. And even though I _explicitly_ told him that he was forbidden from coming here,” Sokka shot him a look that burned with the hatred of four hundred years’ worth of Starks, “he did so anyway. Those from the north have no respect for the warnings my House gives, and I know that he truly meant you no harm. He’s just stupid and naïve.”

The wolves growled and grumbled among themselves, like a council deciding their verdict, and Zuko’s lips curled bitterly. Sokka was right; he was just a boy, just a stupid, naïve boy. No wonder why his father had sold him for an army; he wasn’t good for anything else. All he was good for was to be a soft, quiet husband who should spend the rest of his days as a bedwarmer.

“Please, go in peace,” Sokka begged. “I will escort him out and make sure that he never returns. Again, my deepest apologies.”

The wolves shifted around, exchanging looks, before the biggest one dipped its head to Sokka and turned to its comrades with a sharp bark. Zuko watched as they dissipated into smoke right before his eyes, scattering in the wind as if they’d never been there in the first place.

“Sokka—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sokka roared, and Zuko flinched back. “What the hell were you thinking?! Did your father send you?!”

“No! No, I was just curious, I—”

“Bullshit! You were coming to burn down the Weirwood grove! You and your family have always hated our culture, and you wanted to break our spirit even more than you already have!”

“That’s not true! I swear! I was getting bored of watching and I just wanted to take a small, quick peek, but then we got lost—”

“You Targaryens lie like breathing, don’t you?”

“Hey! Stop that!” Zuko launched to his feet and stormed over, ignoring Yue’s growl as he got up in Sokka’s face. “What have I _ever_ done to make you think that I would do such a thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know, literally everything since we’ve met? You literally told me yesterday that you wanted to break my nose and punch in my teeth! So _so-rry_ if I was under the impression that you hated my guts and wanted to do your best to make my life a living hell!”

“Only because you hated me before you even met me! You were insulting me during our first conversation, unprompted, and I wasn’t just going to sit back and let you walk all over me! Face it, you’ve been out to get me since you handed me that horse!”

Both of them fell silent at the mention of the horse, turning to look at Turtleduck whimpering softly in the snow. His coat was shining with sweat and his sides trembled with every heave of breath he dragged in and out, his flank coated in blood from when the wolf had jumped up onto him.

“I should’ve never brough him here. It’s my fault,” Zuko whispered. “What’s going to happen to him?”

Sokka leveled him with a withering glare. “I think you know what’s going to happen.”

He drew his sword.

Zuko leapt between Sokka and Turtleduck with his arms outstretched before he could think better of it, planting his hands against Sokka’s chest in a pathetic attempt to stop him.

“No! Please don’t kill him!” he begged, tears springing to his eyes as he spared a glance back at the weary stallion. “It’s just a broken leg! People break their legs all the time!”

“Even if it heals, even if we get the best waterbenders to help, he’ll never run again. A horse that can’t run is no horse at all and will lead a horrible, wretched life full of pain and sorrow. He’s better off dead.”

He made a move to continue forward, but Zuko moved to block his path once more.

“Zuko. Get out of my way. Haven’t you done enough?”

“No. I can’t let you kill him. It isn’t fair; he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You of all people should know that life isn’t fair, and that sometimes people and things that don’t do anything wrong get the short end of the stick,” Sokka snarled. “But…you’re right, I shouldn’t kill him.”

He shoved Zuko away and thrust his sword out to him. “You do it.”

“Wh—me? NO! Absolutely not, I—”

“You were the one who decided to steer him away from the group after being explicitly told not to wander off. You were the one who chose to venture into my family’s notoriously dangerous sacred grove on his back after I forbade you from doing so. He’s paid the price because of it, and now it’s time you pay yours. Think about someone else besides yourself for once in your miserable fucking life and end this poor thing’s suffering.”

Zuko’s lower lip trembled, and he turned to Turtleduck. The horse was still breathing hard, but his eyes were half-closed and he was shaking terribly, whether it be from the pain or the cold, Zuko wasn’t sure. His long, wavy mane was fanned around his head like a halo, barely distinguishable against the snow.

“Are…are you sure the waterbenders won’t be able to fix it?”

Sokka’s stony expression softened the tiniest amount. “Even if we somehow managed to get him back to Winterfell, I think they could only mend it enough where he could stand. The pain would never go away.”

Zuko only hesitated for a few moments before he took the sword from Sokka’s hands with trembling fingers. He approached Turtleduck slowly and knelt down beside him, pressing his hand against the horse’s burning hot neck. His pulse fluttered wildly against Zuko’s fingertips.

“Where do I cut?” Zuko asked. The words sounded empty, even to his own ears.

“Right at the jugular, more toward the base of the neck.”

Zuko pressed the sword against Turtleduck’s skin, gently. “Here?”

Sokka nodded. “It’ll be quickest that way.”

Zuko closed his eyes and positioned himself to that Turtleduck’s head was in his lap, and it was only then that he finally allowed himself to keel over, pressing his forehead against Turtleduck’s cheek as a soft, quiet sob escaped his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen—I’m so sorry.”

With a ragged breath, Zuko pressed the edge of Sokka’s sword against the base of Turtleduck’s neck. The horse closed his eyes as if he knew what would come next, letting out a heavy, resigned breath from his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko repeated.

One strong press and slice, and blood was bursting forth in a torrent, blossoming against the snow and soaking into Turtleduck’s coat. The stallion flailed, his eyes snapping open in shocked surprise and a strangled groan slipping out from between his lips, and Zuko wept silently and held the horse’s head still as he struggled and choked on his own blood. Turtleduck fought for his life for the better part of two minutes before going limp and still in Zuko’s arms.

“He was a good horse,” Sokka murmured as he knelt beside the body, gently taking his sword back from Zuko and sheathing it while it was still bloody. “May your spirit run free in the Night Lands forevermore, Silver Dancer.”

“His name was Turtleduck,” Zuko whispered, still stroking the stallion’s nose absently.

Sokka’s face twisted into something ugly. “I don’t have time for this. Come on. Let’s go.”

He clambered to his feet, planting a rough hand on Zuko’s shoulder and pulling him up as well. All it took was a sharp whistle for Grey Wind to come trotting out of the trees with his ears pricked and his tail swishing merrily, and Zuko’s hands balled into fists as the horse nuzzled Sokka in greeting. If Grey Wind was bothered by the smell or the sight of Turtleduck’s bloody body, he didn’t show it.

The wound was still weeping steadily, the crimson patch growing bigger and bigger like a red flower blossoming around Turtleduck’s limp form, and Zuko couldn’t find the strength to look away. For some reason, he’d always thought that things just…stopped bleeding once they died. With all of the blood still gushing out of him and the occasional post-mortem twitch, it made Turtleduck look like he was still alive.

“We should be back before dinner,” Sokka stated, jerking Zuko out of his thoughts as he hooked his foot into one of Grey Wind’s stirrups and slung himself into the saddle. “If we keep good pace, that is.”

Zuko stepped forward, wringing his hands and eying the smokey stallion warily. “Grey Wind can carry the both of us?”

“He can, but he won’t.” Sokka’s voice was like the frozen surface of a pond splintering. “You will walk.”

“Listen, I—”

But Sokka had already clucked to Grey Wind and was setting off in the direction that he’d come from. “Yue will make sure you aren’t lost.”

Zuko turned to the dire wolf in question, who bared her teeth with a snarl, and swallowed around the lump in his throat before obeying. He didn’t spare a glance back at Turtleduck, though he will lie awake later and wish he’d bidden him one last goodbye.

The trek back to Winterfell was cold and miserable. Sokka didn’t speak the whole way, keeping his gaze straight ahead as he steered Grey Wind with his heels, and Zuko cursed him silently in every single way imaginable as he trudged alongside him. Snow got into his boots and melted into a frigid puddle that only got colder as time went on, and by the time they reached the iron gates, Zuko was pretty sure he was half-icicle.

There was a grand welcome back, attendants and officials hurrying to fuss over both of them—commending Sokka’s bravery and chiding Zuko’s foolishness to venture out into the Weirwood—but Zuko was too busy shivering to remember what exactly was said. Sokka relayed the news of Silver Dancer’s passing, citing wolves as the reason to blame and nothing more, and Zuko’s jaw clenched at how terrible of a liar Sokka was.

He wasn’t at all surprised when, once all of the crowds had dissipated and Sokka had left without a word, Commander Zhao informed him that Ozai wished for his son to visit his quarters once he’d changed into new clothes. Zuko went through the motions of shedding his wet and snow-covered garments in a haze, not really registering the world around him as he pulled on new robes that he hoped his father will be content with.

Ozai, of course, was furious with him for leaving without permission, and for the unchaperoned meeting with Sokka. He yells. Zuko does not remember what he says. He _does_ remember when father sheds his belt and orders Zuko to remove his shirt, and obeys without batting an eyelash even though he’s usually terrified when facing the wrath of the firelord.

His father gives him fifty lashes across his back, and for the first time in his life, Zuko knows that he deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a MONSTER to write! I hope you guys liked it!! Next chapter is what everyone's been waiting for!!! Please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed it!


	7. A Dance With Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the wedding that will be remembered for generations to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): THIS IS WHERE THE EXPLICIT RATING COMES INTO PLAY, SO BUCKLE UP
> 
> Explicit sexual content, dubious consent from both parties, painful sex, lying to a sexual partner, mentions of rape/noncon, mentions of gore and animal death, suicidal thoughts, mentions of suicide

**VII.**

**A DANCE WITH DRAGONS**

The cloak he’s dressed in is made from the skin of a polar bear dog and drags along the ground when he walks. It’d been passed down for four generations, and the last time it was worn had been by Hakoda at his wedding.

His father and Katara both cry when they see him dressed in the full regalia, pulling him into a tight hug as they whisper praise and encouragement. It’ll be the first and the last time he wears this sacred cloak, but Sokka feels nothing.

\---

Zuko wishes his mother were here.

The attendants dress him in the most lavish outfit he’s ever worn, probably worth more than a peasant could make in a hundred years. It’s red and gold, a mix of armor and kimono that’s embroidered with dragons snaking up and down the fabric, their eyes shining with jewels and their bodies glittering with golden scales. The engagement necklace is the final touch, wrapping around his neck like a hangman’s noose.

He turns to his family once the attendants have left to show them the outfit, and Iroh is the only one who smiles at him, offering a double thumbs-up and a nod of approval. Zuko wonders what his mother would think if she were here, if she would glide over and squeeze his cheeks and tell him how handsome he looked—perhaps shedding a few tears that her baby boy was getting married. But she’s not here. She’s dead.

Zuko doesn’t smile back.

\---

Yue and Jet are locked up in the kennels with the other dogs for the day so they don’t make trouble or scare the guests. Sokka wishes he could card his fingers through Yue’s fur as Winterfell’s resident shaman anoints him with oil, all while chanting ancient songs of health and prosperity. They’re in his room, all of the windows shuttered closed, and the smoke from the incense is making Sokka dizzy.

Any mess has been diligently cleared away; the bed is made, the desk has been organized, and the floors have been swept three times over. Sokka knows why. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

“It’ll be fun,” Hakoda insists once the ceremony is complete. He must’ve seen Sokka staring at the bed with dread in his eyes. “Both of you will have a great time, and even if it’s not great, you can joke about it later.”

“I don’t want to. And I bet he doesn’t, either.”

“It’s just once. You don’t have to do it ever again after if you don’t want to. Besides…” Hakoda nudges him playfully with his elbow, though his smile is strained, “his father tells me he prefers…to receive, if you know what I mean.”

It doesn’t make it any better, but he plasters on a grin and pretends it does because he knows his father is worried.

\---

Ozai puts a hand on Zuko’s shoulder once Azula and Iroh have excused themselves to don their own formalwear. His grip feels like a bear trap, and Zuko can feel the bite of his fingernails all the way through his layers.

“Don’t tell him no, Zuko. _Never_ tell him no. From this day forward, it’ll be your duty as his husband to make him happy.”

“Yes, father.”

There’s a pause, and Zuko wonders if his father will say those words that all fathers are supposed to say to their sons when it’s their wedding day: “I’m proud of you” or “You’ve grown into such a fine young man” or “You’ve done a great service for this House.”

But his father only smiles a wide, crooked smile and releases his grip, leaving without a word.

Zuko would cry, but he doesn’t think he remembers how.

\---

Sokka is afraid he’s going to forget the words to the wedding vows and make a fool of himself, so as noon draws near and Winterfell scrambles to get the final touches ready, he sits at his desk with his head bowed and murmurs the words beneath his breath.

He’d visited his mother the night before with Katara and his father, laying out flowers and lighting candles and telling her of the joyous day that’s to come. Sokka wonders if his mother knows they’d all been dishonest; it’s so odd how people will tell lies for the sake of keeping up hope, even to the dead.

He prays to his ancestors, to Nymeria the Great Wolf Sprit, to the Weirwood, and to any other godforsaken thing he can think of for strength, but no one responds. He’s starting to wonder why he’s still surprised and hurt by the silence that lingers in the air, brimming with questions left unanswered.

\---

The bells toll. It’s noon.

Iroh gathers him up into a tight hug, squeezing the daylights out of him, but Zuko is too busy trying to keep himself from breaking down into sobs to care. Trepidation and weariness have settled in his gut like a sack of stones, making his chest feel tight…or maybe that was just his outfit throttling the daylights out of him.

“Just know, you’ll always be my nephew,” Iroh whispers. His tears are wet against Zuko’s skin. “I am so, so proud of you. No matter what you may think, you’re strong. You’ll make the most of this.”

“Thanks, uncle.” His voice sounds hollow, even to himself.

“You’re going to do wonderfully.”

“I hope so.”

Zuko thinks back to Turtleduck and hears the stallion’s gurgling cries of agony echoing in his ears. There hadn’t been a night this week that he hadn’t woken up with images of the horse lying in his own blood, his eyes staring off emptily and his mane matted with red. Perhaps it would’ve been better if Zuko had just let the wolves eat the both of them.

Iroh eventually withdraws, and Azula takes his place. Her hug feels like being strangled.

“Will you miss me, Zuzu?” she asks, sickly sweet, and he’s glad he can’t see the sneer on her face.

“Yes,” he responds because it’s the right thing to say.

He’ll miss the bright-eyed little sister from the shining days of his youth, but not the girl standing with her arms wrapped around him and her body vibrating with sick delight. She’d already made several jokes about Sokka bending him over, and every time he’s had to force back the tears that well up behind his eyes.

He wonders what happened to her, what happened to the both of them.

\------------

As Sokka admired the scene before him from where he stood at the altar, he had to admit that the courtyard was decorated quite nicely. Rows of chairs had been set up on either side of a long red carpet that stretched all the way to the doors of the keep, the same doors that Sokka was supposed to emerge when first meeting the Targaryens. Nobles milled about among these chairs in their best finery, chatting amicably with one another as they took their seats—Southerners on the right, Northerners on the left—and the sharp divide between the shades of blue and silver and the shades of red and gold made for an interesting aesthetic.

On the outskirts, the other residents of Winterfell hovered in their best finery. There was the farrier and his wife, the owner of the general store, the cooks, the servants, the children that Sokka always played with, and many of Sokka’s friends. They waved to him and made kissy faces when he looked their way, and he couldn’t help the grin that twisted his lips as he gave a hesitant wave back. Above them, the guards on the battlements were all blatantly neglecting their duties, leaning against the ramparts with their crossbows slung over their shoulders and chatting amongst themselves.

“The flowers look good,” Katara remarked, sidling up beside him. She looked beautiful, dressed in an intricately beaded dress with feathers in her hair and a gigantic brown pelt slung over her shoulders. “The shopkeeper really outdid herself with all the garlands and bouquets.”

“Yeah,” Sokka mumbled, tilting his head up to eye the arch of white roses that stretched over the altar, the blossoms shivering hypnotically in the breeze. “The smell is giving me a headache.”

“Me, too.” Snowflakes were starting to come down, gently, but the waterbenders hadn’t predicted anything past a small flurry. “You know, the shaman says that snow on your wedding day is good luck. It means your love will last a thousand lifetimes.”

“I think I’m going to have to call bullshit on that one,” Sokka growled with a roll of his eyes. “All Zuko and I do is piss each other off. I can’t fucking stand him.”

“Shh! The shaman is right there.” He and the cleric that the Targaryens had brought from the North were currently clustered around the altar, fiddling with their holy relics n’ such. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to like him. Someday.”

Sokka glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “Never.”

Katara opened her mouth to argue, but that’s when a round-faced woman hurried up to them, her long black cloak secured with a brooch shaped like the iron fist of House Glover. She offered a nod of acknowledgement to Katara before turning to Sokka with a grin.

“Congratulations, Lord Stark,” she greeted, shaking his hand. Her grip was strong, almost crushing. “May your marriage be long and prosperous.”

“Thank you, Lady Glover. I’m glad you and the other leaders of the southern Houses could attend under such short notice.”

“Ah, but this is the marriage of the century, my dear! We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Her eyes suddenly went colder than chips of ice, and she leaned in and lowered her voice to a murmur. “You have the full support of House Glover at your back, Lord Stark. House Manderly, Umber, Karstark, and Mormont are also on standby. Just give the signal—two fingers held up— and we can have the Targaryens dead by nightfall. The South remembers.”

Sokka’s throat went dry, and he floundered for words before settling with a shaky nod. The woman’s face went bright and jovial once more, like a mask sliding back into place, and she bowed before heading back to her family.

“You can’t take her up on her offer. I know you’re thinking about it,” Katara said immediately, the moment Lady Glover disappeared into the crowd. “It sounds tempting, but you can’t.”

“Why not?” Sokka snapped, casting a furtive glance at the red and gold side of the aisle. “It would be better off for everyone. The world would be safe.”

“It breaks the laws of hospitality, Sokka. The _sacred_ laws. Killing someone when you’ve invited them into your own home will greatly anger the spirits.”

“No, it won’t. First of all, we didn’t _invite_ them—they threatened us and we just had to go along with it. Second, the Weirwood hates Targaryens just as much as we do. It wouldn’t mind.”

“Perhaps, but it would anger the other spirits: The Great Spirits that dance in the sky. Besides,” Katara nudged him with her elbow and gestured to her chin to the front row, where Iroh Targaryen was laughing heartily at a joke some random noblewoman had made, “do you really want to kill _all_ of the Targaryens?”

Sokka looked away sharply. “Some sacrifices have to be made for the good of the world. The Three-Eyed Raven should’ve known that when he defeated the Targaryens the first time.”

“Don’t you see what’s happening, Sokka? The other waterbender Houses are using you; they know that if you break the laws of hospitality, the bad luck will fall upon House Stark and not their own Houses, even if they join in,” Katara insisted. “Why do you think they would tell _you_ to give the signal, and not our father? They know he’s too honorable of a man to agree to such a thing.”

She was right, and he knew it, but that didn’t make the realization any less bitter. It also didn’t help that the Targaryens had brought other firebender nobles with them in their procession. Though the only one from a House of any notoriety was Zhao of House Clegane, the whole lot of them would still be a formidable threat.

Then the orchestra began to tune itself at a middle C, the sound reverberating against the walls of Winterfell, and those loitering about quickly scrambled to their seats. Katara gave him a tight hug, murmuring some words of encouragement that were lost to the rush of blood in Sokka’s ears, before hurrying over to her seat in the front row beside their father. Hakoda offered him a grin and a wave, though Sokka was too full of nerves to wave back.

He straightened his spine, tilted his chin up, and made sure all the beads, bits, and baubles of his outfit were in the right place. He was supposed to be a man, the future Lord of Winterfell, but he just felt like a child standing on the front lines of a battlefield, trembling in his father’s armor.

The conductor looked to the Targaryen guards positioned on either side of the door to the keep, and when given the signal, heaved his arms up and ushered the orchestra into a beautiful ballad from the North that Sokka didn’t recognize…but all thoughts of the music went right out of the window when the guards opened up the doors. Everyone rose to their feet in near-unison with a rustle of fabric and a tinkling of jewelry, craning their necks to see over others’ heads as Zuko and Firelord Ozai emerged from the keep.

Zuko looked absolutely stunning. He was dressed in red and gold like a blinding sun, and wore a combination of flowing, richly embroidered fabrics and armor that reflected the light of noon. Sokka’s breath hitched when their gazes met, and though Zuko’s eyes were misty and wide with fear as he clutched his father’s arm like a lifeline, he held Sokka’s stare nonetheless.

Beside him, Ozai himself looked just as regal as ever. There was a triumphant smile on his face, the smile of a victorious conqueror, and Sokka couldn’t help the anger that welled up in the back of his throat.

 _Under any other circumstances, this would’ve been the happiest moment of my life,_ he thought as he struggled to keep his expression schooled _. I wonder how Zuko and I would’ve gotten along if we’d met the way lovers are supposed to meet._

When the Targaryens finally reached the base of the wooden dais that the altar was placed on, Ozai turned to his son with a smile and kissed his forehead before withdrawing to his seat. Hesitantly, Zuko gathered up his robes so he could scale the dais steps and stand at Sokka’s side, offering a nod of greeting. His cape stretched all the way down the aisle like a wedding train of sorts, embroidered with dancing dragons and blazing suns.

“You look good,” Sokka murmured as they both turned to face the altar like they’d been told.

“So do you.”

The cleric stepped forward, outstretching his arms. “Lords and Ladies, we thank all for coming. Today we are here to join Sokka Stark, twelfth of his name, and Zuko Targaryen, sixth of his name, in holy matrimony.”

Cheers burst from both sides of the aisle, the courtyard ringing with applause from all sides and drowning out the orchestra, which was still playing softly in the background. Standing so close to Zuko was like standing next to a fire; heat was radiating off of him in waves, though Sokka wasn’t sure if it was nerves or if firebenders’ blood just always ran a few degrees hotter.

The shaman struck a match to light his incense, murmuring prayers and incantations under his breath. In all of the other wedding ceremonies Sokka had seen, the shaman had been chanting loudly and banging drums, and it was only then that he realized…

 _What the hell?!_ Fury leapt through Sokka’s veins like a bolt of lightning, his face going red-hot faster than a sword over hot coals. _This isn’t a “blend of cultures”! All of this shit is based on stuff from the North! The northern orchestra, the whole walking-down-the-aisle thing, and now the cleric taking over! Fuck this._

The cleric continued, oblivious to Sokka’s clenched jaw and burning eyes, “This marriage will not only unite these two young souls, but also unite the great Houses of Stark and Targaryen as one. This alliance shall usher in a new age of peace and prosperity in the world, and will be remembered for centuries to come as the turning point in humanity’s history. The spirits will rejoice as balance returns to the world, and forever shall our descendants sing praises of…”

_How many people am I sentencing to die because of this? How many cities will be torched? How many children will find themselves orphaned? The world can’t survive another Targaryen conquest._

Sokka found himself ignoring the cleric’s bullshit, instead bowing his head and praying with all of his might that the Three-Eyed Raven—the Avatar, whatever you’d like to call him—would come swooping out of the sky to put a stop to it. It would never happen, he knew, but it never hurt to try.

_But we don’t need the Avatar. There’s another option._

Before he could think better of it, Sokka turned ever so slightly to face the audience. It didn’t take long to find Lady Glover seated in one of the middle rows with her husband and four children. Their gazes met, and Lady Glover’s mouth twisted into a smile as she tilted her head. A silent question.

As the cleric droned on, Sokka realized he could end this now.

He imagined the Lords and Ladies dressed in blue drawing their swords and slaughtering their unsuspecting guests in red, imagined the guards on the battlements drawing their crossbows and firing into the crowd until the Targaryens bristled with so many arrows they could’ve been mistaken for porcupine bears. He imagined Iroh falling to Lady Glover’s blade, Azula blasting fire only to have her throat slit by Bato, and Ozai collapsing to the ground with an arrow in his neck. He imagined Zuko crumpling into a pool of his own blood—not unlike how Silver Dancer had lain in the snow—his eyes wide and terrified as he choked and spluttered and clung desperately to life. He imagined drawing his sword and driving it right through Zuko’s heart to end his suffering, watching the final tears fall from his eyes as he slumped lifelessly at the foot of the altar.

His hands began to tremble.

 _Do it! Do it, coward!_ a voice in his head roared. _What are the lives of these vicious people compared to the lives of the millions of people they’ll destroy! Avenge your family! Avenge House Tully! Avenge the South!_

He thought of the dragons in the Weirwood grove, thought about the gigantic skull of Viserion rotting away in the crypt. He thought of the stone face of his mother, her hands outstretched and her smile gentle.

_House Greyjoy killed her. They’re allied with House Greyjoy. They were an accessory to her murder._

Sokka’s expression contorted.

_You have to protect your family. Your father is headed to war after this—you’re agreeing to something where your father might die anyway. You have to protect Katara. She’s your little sister and you have to protect her._

But then he looked to Zuko, shocked when he found that Zuko was looking back. The firebender boy offered him a wry smile and a roll of his eyes, probably referring to how the cleric had been blabbering on for ages, and the image of him lying dead flashed before Sokka’s eyes.

His hands stilled, and he didn’t turn back to Lady Glover. He wouldn’t be the one to give the signal.

Perhaps he’d spend the rest of his life wondering if he’d made a mistake on this day, but in that moment he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t let these people’s blood be on his hands, couldn’t violate the sacred laws of hospitality, and he hoped the Lords and Ladies of the South wouldn’t think any less of him.

“Sokka Stark.” The words jolted Sokka out of his thoughts, and he quickly straightened, hoping the cleric hadn’t had to call his name multiple times. “You understand that your betrothed shall be taking the name of your House, yes?”

“I do.”

“You understand that this is an act of utmost generosity and honor, one that you should not take lightly?”

“I do.”

“Do you vow to treat your husband with the utmost respect, just as you would treat one of your own?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. You may now cloak the groom and bring him under your protection.”

This part was a southern tradition, and Sokka turned to the shaman, who had the wedding cloak at hand to present to him. This cloak was even older than the polar bear dog skin he was wearing, and he unfurled it gently to reveal a gorgeous pattern of wolves leaping across the fabric, embroidered in traditional southern style.

As gingerly as he could, he draped the cloak over Zuko’s shoulders and tried to ignore the way Zuko flinched.

“Zuko Targaryen, you understand that from this day forth you’ll be known as Zuko Stark, and shall inherit the position of Lord of Winterfell along with your betrothed?”

“I do understand.” Zuko’s voice sounded small, and he wouldn’t look at Sokka when he tried to catch his eye again.

“You understand that you must be just as fiercely loyal to this House as you were to House Targaryen? That you must be willing to lay down your life if it means to protect it?”

“I do.”

“Do you vow to treat your husband with the utmost respect, just as you would for one of your own?”

“I do.”

The cleric looked like he was about to say something more, perhaps go off on another verbose ramble, but the shaman quickly shouldered him aside, producing a red and blue silk ribbon from the folds of his cloak. “Face your betrothed and join hands.”

Zuko and Sokka obeyed, refusing to look each other in the eye as the shaman wrapped the ribbon around their joined hands over and over again, until it would be impossible to break apart even if they’d wanted to. Then, both the shaman and the cleric placed their hands upon Zuko and Sokka’s bound ones and murmured two different blessings from two different cultures.

Perhaps the double blessings would make them luckier and more blessed, but Sokka couldn’t help but feel like he was at an execution, watching as the sword slowly arced down to chop off his head.

“And now, under the light of the spirits, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” the shaman announced as he and the cleric withdrew. “Look upon one another and say the vow.”

Sokka finally met Zuko’s gaze and found that a single tear glistened on his cheek—the scarred side that was facing away from everyone. They both drew a shaky breath and spoke in unison, as if their souls had truly come together as one:

“I promise to cherish you always, to honor and sustain you, in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, and to be true to you in all things. We shall never part, not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. I am his. And he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“Congratulations, Zuko and Sokka Stark! You may now seal this vow with a kiss!”

Sokka doesn’t even think, closing his eyes and leaning forward. Their lips come together warmly, the bells ring, people leap from their seats to cheer and clap, and the guards toss rose petals from the battlements, but Sokka still feels emptier than he’s ever felt in his entire life.

He barely remembered what happened between him and Zuko withdrawing from one another and the migration of everyone into the dining hall, but suddenly he found himself sitting with Zuko at the center of the main table, with Sokka’s family on his left and Zuko’s family on his right.

The orchestra was playing loudly in one corner of the room, barely rising up over the jovial sounds of feasting, but despite the fact that the food before him looked delectable, he couldn’t find it in himself to eat any of it. He and Zuko hadn’t said a word to each other since their vows, and when he spared a glance to his…fuck, this guy was his husband now, his fucking _husband_ …the firebender was pushing his food around his plate with a miserable look on his face.

“So…” he trailed off as Zuko looked up to eye him critically. “That was a…nice ceremony.”

“It was,” Zuko agreed. “I’m just glad that they let me take my ridiculous cape off.”

“That was a smart move on your attendants’ part; wouldn’t want anyone to be stepping on it. Imagine how awful it would be if it got muddy footprints all over it.”

“Yeah.” Zuko returned to picking at his food, and Sokka wasn’t stupid enough to miss the hint.

 _Well, fuck you too, I guess,_ he thought, downing his goblet of wine in a few gulps and ignoring the sideways glance his father gave him.

There were three more courses of dinner to be had and five courses of dessert after that, and Sokka threw himself into eating in hopes that some sustenance would fill the sinking pit in his stomach. Zuko threw him a few sideways glances from time to time, his face stricken with horror has Sokka picked a rack of ribs clean, polished off an entire turkey leg, and helped himself to an ungodly amount of mashed potatoes.

He was just about to dig in to a fantastic-looking apple pie when Ozai rose from his seat on Zuko’s other side, tapping his goblet of wine with his knife. Though it took a few moments, the entire room eventually stuttered into excited silence. 

“Thank you all so much for joining us on this glorious day.” The Ozai’s voice boomed like a clap of thunder, and Sokka finally understood how this guy could command the respect of so many Houses. “We have joined House Stark and House Targaryen in an unbreakable bond that not even time itself can sever, and I look forward to working with the South as we work to bring about an era of peace and prosperity to all the lands in the world!”

The dining hall reverberated with cheers, and Sokka almost had to clap his hands over his ears to keep his eardrums from bursting.

Ozai continued, “I shall now present my son and my son-in-law with gifts that shall hopefully aid in their duties once our armies are on the march and they must assume the role of the Lords of Winterfell.”

The doors to the kitchen flew open, but instead of waiters arriving with yet another meal course, a group of servants hauled two gigantic trunks to the center of the room, setting them before the raised dais where their table has been set up.

“For my son,” The servants unlatched one of the boxes, revealing two dao swords crossed on a bed of green silk, “Two swords expertly crafted by your teacher, Piandao Dondarrion. Though you will be a Lord of the highest esteem, you must still continue your lessons in firebending and sword wielding—you can never know when they’ll come in handy. You’ve grown into such a fine young man, and I wish dearly that your mother could be here to witness your triumph.”

“Thank you, father,” Zuko states loudly enough for everyone to hear before falling back into sullen silence. Sokka realized that Zuko’s knife was trembling as he clutched it in his fist.

“And for my new son-in-law, my child in all but blood,” The servants unlatched the other box, revealing a jet-black jian sword unlike anything Sokka had ever seen before. Gazing upon it actually took Sokka’s breath away. “I also present a weapon crafted by Piandao Dondarrion. It is made of a rare meteorite, one that only the most skilled of blacksmiths could work with. I pray you must never need to use it, but when your father and I are long gone and you inherit Winterfell, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Thank you so much, Firelord Targaryen. It’s an honor.”

“Please, Sokka, call me ‘father.’”

Sokka would rather use that stupid space sword to cut his own throat than to ever refer to Ozai Targaryen as his father, but he forced a smile and nodded all the same. Ozai settled back into his seat and the servants took the trunks away, only for them to be replaced by two new trunks.

“These gifts are from me,” Hakoda declared, patting Sokka on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. “For my son: a new boomerang, courtesy of the blacksmith.” The servants unveiled a perfectly crafted boomerang, decorated with images of leaping wolves and soaring ravens, and Sokka couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “And for Zuko: I wish to return something of your family’s.” The servants opened up the chest to reveal a blue and white wooden face, one that Sokka had never seen before. It was clearly very old but well-preserved, and a threadbare ribbon attached to it made Sokka realize that it was supposed to be worn as a mask. “This is a Blue Spirit mask, brought over by the Targaryen fleets during the conquest. Winterfell has had it ever since. I hope you accept it as a sign of goodwill.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

Hakoda didn’t insist that Zuko call him “father,” only nodded and returned to his seat. More gifts were presented by the various Lords and Ladies in attendance. Lord Umber, who’d been very good about keeping quiet regarding Gran Gran’s current escape to his stronghold at the moment, bestowed them with a gigantic statue of a wolf and a dragon sitting side-by-side. Lady Glover, who refused to meet Sokka’s gaze, gave away a first-edition script of _Love Amongst the Dragons_ to Zuko and a fancy goblet for Sokka. There came some nice furs from Lord and Lady Manderly, some new saddles and bridles from the Karstarks, a big porcelain vase (almost tall as Sokka was) from Lord Clegane, and two gigantic books regarding the histories of House Stark and Targaryen from Zuko’s teacher.

“From House Mormont, I present the both of you a set of silver candelabras,” Bato said with a grin, preening when all of the guests murmured praises of their craftsmanship. “However, following the recent death of your horse, Lord Zuko, I have also decided to present you with a new steed. His name is Roan Summer, and although I didn’t think it’d be the best idea to bring him into the dinning hall, I can assure you that he’s waiting for you in the stables.”

“Thank you, Lord Mormont.” Zuko’s voice sounded like it would break at any moment as everyone chuckled at Bato’s joke. “I promise to take good care of him.”

_Yeah, and look how that turned out with Silver Dancer,_ Sokka thought bitterly.

He was just about to start nibbling at his food again—it’d been sitting there going cold for the entirety of the gift presentations, since Sokka didn’t want to look rude by scarfing down his dinner like a fucking animal—when Iroh Targaryen rose from his seat. Despite how Iroh was the _one_ Targaryen that he didn’t despise, Sokka was only barely able to hold back an eye roll. At this point he just wanted to eat as much as possible and hopefully be too drunk by the end of the night to remember any of this.

“I wanted to save my gift for last,” Iroh announced jovially, and Sokka had to admit that the man’s demeanor had a way of lighting up the room. “No offense, Lords and Ladies, but I put a lot of thought into mine. I think I’ve gotten you all beat.”

A chorus of laughter rippled through the assembled guests as three servants emerged—Sokka reminded himself to tip them a massive amount once the night was over as compensation for hauling shit back and forth—and carried a long wooden box that seemed…kind of plain compared to the other trunks and cases that all of the other gifts had been in.

“As many of you know, in the shining days of my youth, my late son, Lu Ten, and I used to be commanders in the Targaryen army,” Iroh explained, his tone turning wistful. He’d told Sokka stories of his son before and he always sounded the same way. “Following my son’s death during a skirmish with the…extinct House Blackfyre, I decided it would be best if I abdicated the throne to my younger brother and set out into the world to do some soul searching.”

_Dude, abdicating the throne was the worst choice you could’ve ever made,_ Sokka thought. _If you were the firelord, I wouldn’t be stuck married to your fucking nephew._

“I’ve traveled far and wide, visiting a great many lands and Houses along the way; however, before I did so, I returned to the since abandoned wreckage of the Blackfyre stronghold in hopes that I’d feel closer to my son’s spirit. While I was traversing the rubble, I found this box, and within it…”

The servants unlatched the lid and pulled it open with a squeal of rusted hinges, and beside him Zuko gasped, as did the entirety of the Targaryen side of the room. The southerners seemed a bit confused, and Sokka couldn’t blame them: It looked like three rocks. Three…weirdly shaped and weirdly colored rocks that were the size of pineapples. They also…kind of looked like pineapples. Did Iroh just give them three pineapples as a wedding gift?

“My dearest Zuko…and Sokka, of course, I present to you three dragon eggs that had been passed down in secret through the generations of House Blackfyre. Time has long since turned them to stone, but they’re still beautiful to look at.”

“Uncle, I don’t know what to say.” Zuko’s smile was radiant, and he was practically vibrating with excitement, his leg jiggling restlessly beneath the table as if he were prepared to leap over it and get a closer look. “Thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart.”

“And thanks from me as well,” Sokka agreed with a dip of his head, ignoring the ugly glare that Zuko shot his way.

He had his very own dragon eggs now! Three real dragon eggs! Well, they’d never hatch—and even if they hadn’t been fossilized, the methods of hatching dragon eggs had long since been lost—but he still liked to imagine hatching his very own pet dragons. He then imagined hatching pet dragons with Zuko having joint custody, and promptly _was not_ excited about the fantasy of having pet dragons.

After Iroh reclaimed his seat, the wine poured, the orchestra played, and the tables at the center of the room were pushed aside to make way for a makeshift dance floor. Watching the Lords and Ladies twirl in their fancy dresses and dapper furs was hypnotizing. The pounding of their feet sounded like the beating of a gigantic heart, and Sokka guzzled down his fourth goblet of wine of the night with a grin on his face.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” Hakoda warned softly.

“It’s my wedding. I can do what I want.” The wine was making him braver. He was tired of being his dad’s perfect little son.

“You’re going to want to remember this day.”

“Will I really?”

“Quiet!” Hakoda hissed, planting his hand on the table like how he usually did when he got frustrated. “Your husband is right next to you.”

“It’s his bad side, don’t worry, and even if he _did_ hear me, I wouldn’t care; he hates this just as much as I do. He’s been acting like a miserable fuck the whole time.”

“Then perhaps you should invite him to dance.”

“I’d rather have all three of those dragon eggs shoved down my throat than ask him to a dance, dad. No, I think I’m going to drink instead.” He locked eyes with his father’s as he waved the waiter over, holding his gaze as his goblet was re-filled and he took another long swig.

“You’re testing my patience.”

“Testing? I’m fucking _railing against_ your patience because I know this is the one day of my life I can get away with it. It feels nice to finally be able to talk without getting yelled at.”

“Enough, Sokka. I forbid you from having another drink.”

“Banning a man from drinking _at his own wedding?_ That’s low, even for you.”

“I’m merely making sure you don’t make a fool of yourself; if you don’t stop, it may affect your…performance later tonight.”

Zuko flinched beside him so hard that his silverware rattled. He’d been listening in on the whole thing, the nosy fuck, and Sokka turned to his father slowly, his expression contorting with fury.

“I will _never_ forgive you for this.”

\---

It’s only when the celebration truly shows signs of coming to a close that the full weight of what’s to come settles on Zuko’s shoulders. The orchestra packs up and bids everyone farewell, many of the Lords and Ladies of the South leave to return to their respective strongholds, and the guests from the Targaryen procession one by one begin to excuse themselves to bed.

Zuko had spent the whole night sulking and making dry conversation with his father, neither of which had left him in a particularly good mood, and now that the tables had all cleared off and the hall had fallen still and silent, he felt like he’d been gutted.

He hadn’t danced on his wedding day, hadn’t laughed or sung or even gotten drunk—his father had snatched away his goblet when he’d been poured some wine, and he hadn’t tried to get it back since. He didn’t even remember the wedding pie or the firebending and waterbending performances, just knew that they’d happened and had been mildly entertaining in the moment.

“Alright, I think it’s time I head to my chambers,” Hakoda announced, rising from his chair in unison with Katara. Zuko had seen her dancing and making merry with the other noble ladies, and deeply envied her for having more fun at his own wedding than he’d had. “Tonight was wonderful. It’s hard to believe we’re setting out the day after tomorrow.”

“Me, neither,” Ozai agreed as he, Iroh, and Azula rose as well. His teeth looked like a line of knife points when he grinned. “I look forward to our triumphs on the battlefield.”

“May we live on as legends among men,” Iroh said jovially, and the three men shared a laugh.

Zuko and Sokka were the only ones left sitting, and they both took that as their cue to stand. Zuko’s whole body hurt from hours spent in that hard, stiff-backed chair, and judging from the way Sokka’s face contorted, he was feeling the same thing.

_Good. Maybe it’ll remind him of how much of a sack of shit he is,_ Zuko thought.

“Commander Zhao,” Ozai boomed, and the lord in question—who’d been hovering nearby like some kind of creep ever since the party had begun to wane—stepped forward with a bow. “Please escort the newlyweds to Sokka’s quarters. Unlike us, they still have a long night planned ahead of them.”

Azula’s laugh was the loudest of them all, and it made Zuko wonder if it’d be worth leaping out of the window and burrowing into the snow like a badger mole, never to be seen again.

“Farewell, boys, have fun!” Hakoda encouraged as Zhao herded the two of them out of the dining hall, and Zuko couldn’t help but flinch as he stepped into the snow and the doors slammed closed behind him.

The night was quiet, still humming with the echoes of the ceremony as it slowly faded away into memory. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they trekked through the courtyard and over to the Starks’ keep, where the windows blazed with a gentle golden light that promised a shield from the wind.

Zuko wondered if he should try to talk to Sokka, but quickly decided against it when he recalled all of the things that the asshole had said about him to Hakoda. Sure, he’d been tipsy and just as angry as Zuko was, but that was no excuse to call him a miserable fuck when he was sitting _inches_ away; he hadn’t even had the decency to do it when his back was turned. The comment about them being on his “bad side” didn’t help, either.

By the time they reached Sokka’s chamber, Zuko had worked himself into a cold fury, and he barely registered bidding farewell to Zhao and stepping into the room until the door closed behind Sokka like the door to a crypt, making Zuko go cold all over. His anger left him in a rush, just as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by fear.

As he surveyed the room— _their_ room—he supposed it was…okay. Very small for someone who was practically royalty.

A stone fireplace huddled to his left, cold and empty, and across from him a desk had been pushed beneath a large window, clearly having been cleaned off recently judging by the lack of papers. There was a single potted rose cowering on the windowsill, its petals shriveled and most of its leaves looking like they’d been nibbled at.

The bed jutted from the right wall, across from the fireplace. The headboard was carved with an image of wolves on the hunt, and the mattress was draped with thick furs and pelts that looked like Sokka had skinned himself. Zuko regarded it with a weary acceptance.

“So…” Sokka trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck and seeming at a loss for words.

The floorboards groaned softly as they both shifted their weight from foot to foot, and Zuko opted to study his shoes rather than look Sokka in the eye. He _most certainly_ didn’t want to have to see that damned bed looming like a promise over the guy’s shoulder.

Silence, save for the creaky floorboards and their own nervous breathing. The tension hung so thick in the air that Zuko worried he might choke on it.

He thought about all the other weddings he’d been to, all the romantic books he’d cracked open when he was sure his father wouldn’t catch him. The newlyweds had always fumbled their way to their room tangled up in one another, infatuated and lustful. Their passion always burned so brightly and sparks were always flying between them. Even the ones who’d been strangers had at least been curious to try.

Zuko’s reached deep within himself—seeking that spark—but no matter how much he tried, he felt nothing. His heart was hollow, like a scarecrow stuffed with straw. 

Sokka nearly made him leap out of his own skin when he stepped forward and rested a firm hand on Zuko’s shoulder, and it took all of his willpower to choke back the whimper that bubbled up in his throat.

 _Stop acting like a child,_ his father’s voice boomed in his head. _Don’t shy away from your husband. You belong to him now._ All of you _belongs to him. He can take what he wants._

“You’re shaking,” Sokka said.

Zuko didn’t know how to respond, still refusing to meet his gaze. Sokka’s hand slowly lifted from his shoulder and tilted Zuko’s chin up with a tender care, and it was only then that their eyes finally met. Iroh had always said that you could see the love someone had for you in their eyes if you looked hard enough, but as Zuko desperately searched Sokka’s face, he saw nothing but reluctance and perhaps a bit of irritation.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he stated.

“But…but the marriage has to be consummated,” Zuko managed to stutter out, his eyes snapping closed as he cursed the tremor in his voice. “Otherwise it’s not legitimate.”

“Why don’t we just _tell_ everyone we consummated it and leave it at that?”

“I…I don’t know. If our fathers find out…”

“Listen, I know for a fact my dad wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if we didn’t bang as long as we tricked everyone else into thinking we actually did.”

“My father isn’t like that,” Zuko murmured, wrenching his chin out of Sokka’s grip. He hoped the jealousy didn’t seep through his words. “If he finds out we didn’t consummate the marriage, he’ll…”

Zuko thought about all the ways his father would punish him, all the ways he would punish House Stark. The images flitted behind his eyelids like a gruesome, bloody slideshow.

“He’ll call off the alliance?” Sokka asked, and for the first time since Zuko had met him, his voice sounded small. Vulnerable.

“He will.”

Zuko would never slander his father, but they both knew the implications: Everyone in Winterfell would be slaughtered, and now that Zuko was technically a Stark himself, he would die along with them.

“I think…” Zuko trailed off, pursing his lips into a thin line. “I think we should just get this over with.”

“Alright.”

The word was solemn. Resigned.

Without waiting for an invitation and praying to all of the spirits he knew for strength, Zuko began to fumble with the clasps on his pauldrons, shucking them over his head when he couldn’t figure it out and letting them fall to the floor in a graceless heap. 

Sokka hesitated before following his lead, unbuckling the straps across his chest that fastened his gigantic white cloak. Unlike Zuko’s treatment of his clothing, Sokka strode over to his desk and folded the pelt over the back of the chair, running his fingers through the fur reverently before returning to Zuko.

“Do you…” Sokka trailed off awkwardly, and Zuko paused his dejected unfastening of his shoe straps to peer up at him. “Uh…do you think you could light the fireplace?”

Zuko nodded, flicking his wrist and watching as the kindling burst to life, the much-needed heat radiating into the room like a warming balm.

He tried to occupy himself with his own undressing—good spirits, how many different layers and components could one outfit possibly have?—but he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at Sokka as he did the same. Sokka’s jaw was set and his eyes were narrowed, his movements swift and precise like a player moving pieces on a Pai Sho board. It was to the point where Zuko wondered if he’d practiced undressing himself beforehand; his belt came off first, along with the scabbard that held his sword, and he leaned it up against the wall before plucking away all of the bits of jewelry and gemstones he was draped in.

By the time they were both down to their tunics, Zuko’s heart was fluttering wildly against his ribcage. Sokka had thick muscles and swirling tattoos, that Zuko could spend all day ogling at, and the southerner took a few hesitant steps forward until he was only an arm’s distance away.

“May I?” Sokka asked, holding his hands up, and even though Zuko had no idea what he was referring to, he still nodded all the same. His father had told him to agree to everything Sokka offered, and he would not disobey.

Surprisingly enough, Sokka didn’t go straight for the tie that was holding Zuko’s tunic closed. Instead, he reached up and gently removed the golden fire ornament from Zuko’s topknot, placing it on top of the dresser next to all of Sokka’s discarded jewelry. Zuko tried to keep his breathing measured as Sokka leaned in close to undo the ribbon holding his hair up, his eyes following the thick black strands as they fluttered down to frame his face. His hair had singed off when he’d been scarred, so it was much shorter than a Targaryen prince’s hair should be—only brushing his chin. Had the Agni Kai not happened, his hair probably would’ve reached his shoulders.

“Your hair is nice,” Sokka murmured, and Zuko could only nod faintly. “You wanna untie mine or—”

Zuko was reaching up before Sokka could even finish, tugging on Sokka’s hair fastenings until his wolf tail came undone and his hair rushed down to cover the shaved sides of his head as if they were a dirty secret. It somehow made him look even more handsome, and Zuko couldn’t help the way his face flushed slightly. His boldness didn’t last for long, though, quickly souring into tense trepidation when he realized what would have to happen next. They were both down to the last barrier. There were no more layers to shed, no more pieces of jewelry to remove. All that was left was the final leap.

Zuko toyed with the idea of just untying his tunic himself just to get it over with, but no matter how hard he tried to get his hands to move, they remained paralyzed at his sides.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” he managed to stutter out, focusing on a point over Sokka’s shoulder instead of on the boy’s face. “I…I’ve never done this before. With anyone. Not…not even a girl. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Me neither,” Sokka murmured, and Zuko would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised. “My dad told me a little about it and had me talk to some of our residents in Winterfell who…who are like us. But I haven’t…”

The tail end of the sentence got lost under Sokka’s breath, and the conversation fell to the reign of a horrifically awkward quiet.

Zuko wanted to cry. He wished he could turn back the clock and run as far away as he possibly could from that council meeting, wished he could undo all his past mistakes so he wouldn’t have to deal with this terrible reality. He wanted his mother.

Sokka was the first to move, and Zuko forced himself into stillness. If he allowed himself to flinch or even shift his weight, he’d be sprinting out of the room, out of Winterfell, and into the snowy wastes of the South Pole to freeze to death before Sokka could so much as blink.

Sokka reached out—his hands were trembling—and took hold of the strap that fastened Zuko’s tunic. Nimble fingers picked away at the knot until it unwound itself and the front of the tunic fell open, revealing miles of Zuko’s pale, unblemished skin to Sokka’s gaze.

Sokka’s breath hitched, but Zuko wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t even looking. If he didn’t look, perhaps he could ignore the shame and anger that was creeping up his neck and making his face burn hot. He felt Sokka’s hands gently push the tunic from his shoulders until it pooled around his feet, his fingertips barely grazing his skin and trailing goosebumps in their wake.

“You…you look good.” The compliment was stilted, and Zuko grudgingly accepted it with a dip of his head. “I…guess it’s my turn, huh?”

Unlike with Zuko’s tunic, Sokka’s undergarments consisted of a laced-up shirt and a pair of trunks. Both were as foreign to Zuko as Winterfell itself.

“Um…how do I…?”

“Here, I’ll help you.”

Sokka took both of Zuko’s hands and brought them up to the laces on his shirt. There was a knot here to cinch the fabric, Zuko realized, and even though he’d found it and was dutifully trying to pick it apart, Sokka’s hands still remained on his own. They were warm and strong, callused in places from holding a sword. Once the shirt was unlaced, Zuko tugged on the hem and helped Sokka shuck it over his head, where it joined the other piles of clothes at their feet. The trunks joined them not long after.

“You look good, too,” Zuko murmured.

After so long spent avoiding looking at Sokka, now he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. All of the furs and armor that Sokka had been wearing had made him look bulkier than he actually was. With a little help from the various caricatures of House Stark he’d seen in the news, Zuko had imagined Sokka as broad and barrel-chested, covered in hair and mangled by battle scars. But no, he was just an average guy.

Zuko spared a reluctant glance between Sokka’s legs, hoping he was too preoccupied studying Zuko’s body to notice.

 _Perhaps a bit above-average,_ he thought with growing terror.

This was it. Here they were, standing bare before each other.

Sokka stepped forward, leaning in for a kiss, but Zuko turned his head away before he could stop himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the floor, though he couldn’t find the courage to correct his mistake. He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to his husband or his father’s voice roaring inside of his skull. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sokka’s voice was surprisingly understanding. “Let’s…let’s just get this over with. I’m tired.”

Zuko’s lips curled into a bitter smile. At least they could agree on one thing. Sokka put his hand on Zuko’s shoulder and led him to that wretched, wretched bed that had been crouching in the room like a panther ready to spring on them.

“How do you want it?” Sokka asked, not even looking at him.

“Just…”

_Gentle. Sweet. Slow. I always imagined being held and loved._

But then his father was there again, looming up behind his eyelids with a sneer. _You want to enjoy this, boy? This is a punishment! Take it like a man._

Tears sprung to Zuko’s eyes, and he ground his teeth together furiously. “Just bend me over the side of the bed. I don’t fucking care anymore.”

“It’s our wedding night,” Sokka growled, his voice like rolling thunder. “Don’t you want it to be at least a little bit romantic?”

“It will _never_ be romantic because there’s no romance to be had!” Zuko snapped. “We’re stuck with each other for the rest of our lives because I was _sold to you_ for a couple of waterbender warriors and some knights and bowmen, and if that isn’t the furthest thing from romantic, I don’t know what is.”

“Hey, it’s not sunshine and rainbows for me, either!” Sokka shot back. “You weren’t ‘sold’ to us, first of all—that implies that House Stark wanted to buy you in the first place; your father threatened to butcher each and every one of us if we refused his offer! I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want _you_.”

“Then just do it from behind and pretend I’m one of your southern girls,” Zuko’s voice was dripping with venom, and he balled his hands into fists to make sure he didn’t conjure any flame. “I’ll make sure not to turn around during it so I don’t interrupt your fantasy.”

“Listen, you really don’t sound like you want to do this, let’s just—”

“No! I refuse to be punished for something as stupid as consummating a marriage, and I’m sure you don’t want your whole family slain because of this, either.”

Sokka’s nostrils flared. “I’m not going to rape you.”

“I consent! Here,” Zuko grabbed the back of Sokka’s head and dragged him into a kiss that was nothing more than a smash of lips and a clack of teeth before wrenching away. “That’s me consenting. Now are we going to stop acting like children and do our duty as members of our Houses or are we going to stand here naked and argue for the rest of the night?”

Genuine hurt crossed Sokka’s face, and Zuko was just about to apologize when that hurt quickly morphed into anger. “Fine! Be like that, then!”

Sokka ushered him over to the edge of the bed impatiently, and Zuko let out a ragged breath as a warm hand was planted between his shoulder blades, gently guiding his body against the furs with his feet still pressed against the floor.

“Stay there.” It sounded too tired to be an order.

Zuko’s eyes followed Sokka as he shuffled over to the nightstand and produced a tall, thin bottle of some kind of oil.

“What’s that?”

“This is how it’s supposed to be…I think,” Sokka said as he came back up behind him, uncorking the bottle. “It’s what I was told to do. To make sure it isn’t painful and you don’t bleed or anything.”

“I’m going to bleed anyway.”

“Stop trying to make me hurt you!” Sokka snapped. “I’m not sure if this is some sick game you’re trying to play, but I’ve had enough! I don’t want to hurt you. I…I don’t hurt people.”

“My uncle told me you killed six Greyjoy men in a fishing town not far from here.”

“I don’t hurt people who I don’t have to,” Sokka amended. “Listen, I want to make this okay. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but…I don’t want it to be terrible. For either of us. I certainly don’t want it to be painful, so you have to tell me if you’re hurting.”

“I will.”

_Good luck making this wedding night any more than a sad fuck,_ Zuko thought with a roll of his eyes. He was glad that Sokka couldn’t see his face.

“Okay, so…I’m going to…to…”

“Do it,” Zuko ordered impatiently.

There was a cold, slick finger prodding at him before the words had even left his mouth, and he couldn’t help but clench every single muscle in his body as it pushed into him slowly.

“Relax. If you’re all tensed up, it’ll hurt more.”

Zuko didn’t even have the strength to retort, just closed his eyes and struggled to unwind himself from the knot of stiffness he’d built up. It wasn’t _completely_ awful. Just…odd. Unwelcome. He curled his fingers into the sheets and could feel the burn of humiliation as low as his chest, the room falling silent save for the sounds of their ragged breathing.

After a while of… _fumbling about_ was really the only way to describe it…Sokka added a second finger, which felt just as strange as the first, only there was a slight sting that came along with it that faded almost as soon as it had come.

“You…you doing okay?”

Sokka sounded…breathless? Was he turned on by this? Zuko was too afraid to turn around and see.

“I’m fine,” he managed to mumble.

“Okay. Um…yeah…yeah, that’s good.”

_Spirits above, why the hell is this so awkward?_

Zuko had expected shame. He’d expected agony. He’d expected to be in this exact position a hundred times before. But never had he imagined how appallingly uncomfortable the tension between them would be; he’d always thought that Sokka would have a bit more experience, would be rough and demanding and know exactly what he wanted and how he would get it, but both of them were just bumbling idiots and it was _horrible._

Sokka stuck a third finger into him with about as much finesse as a drunk man trying to fit his keys into the lock on his door, and this time the pain was sharper and didn’t fade as easily.

“Shit,” Zuko hissed, burying his face into the furs and trembling from the effort of trying not to tense up, and Sokka flinched behind him like he’d just been shocked.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s fine, keep going.”

“But—”

“I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much.”

Sokka’s fingers remained still, as if he were debating an argument, but eventually he seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it and continued on. Of course, Zuko would _never_ tell Sokka anything that may jeopardize the consummation, but as long as he held his tongue well enough, Sokka would never find out.

His thoughts were interrupted when Sokka’s fingers jabbed something inside of him that made a jolt shoot up his spine, and he was almost as shocked as Sokka when a soft moan tripped out from between his lips of its own volition.

“What was that?” Zuko demanded, mortified beyond anything imaginable.

It had felt…good. Not slightly uncomfortable. Not bearable. But good.

“I don’t know. I…I think they might’ve mentioned it, but I forgot…”

His fingers jabbed at it again, wholly on accident, and Zuko thought his knees might buckle. A part of him, the part that wasn’t embarrassed of the fact that he was attracted to Sokka and didn’t care that neither of them had wanted to do this, desired nothing more than to cant his hips up and seek out that wonderful feeling once more. But Zuko was horribly ashamed, and that shame kept him still.

Sokka prodded around in that same area for a while longer but didn’t find that spot again, and by the time he’d given up, both of them were weary.

“Uh…okay…so…” Sokka trailed off and removed his fingers, and Zuko was surprised at how odd the loss felt. “I think you’re ready.”

 _I’ll never be ready,_ Zuko thought, closing his eyes and clutching handfuls of fur on either side of his head. _Spirits give me strength._

There was a sound of more oil being poured and then something was pressed against his entrance, something that was definitely not one of Sokka’s fingers.

“You still alright?”

“Just get it over with.”

Sokka’s hands went to his hips, firm but gentle, and Zuko bit down hard on his tongue at the first push inside, his knees knocking restlessly.

“Relax. Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m trying,” Zuko bit out.

“I know. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

_Please stop. Neither of us are enjoying this. We should stop._

The words were balanced at the tip of Zuko’s tongue, ready to be blurted out at any moment. If only Zuko hadn’t been a coward who feared his father more than he feared being torn apart on the inside by the man he’d been forced to marry. Sokka’s thumbs were rubbing against Zuko’s skin in an attempt to soothe, and he decided to focus on that rather than the sharp ache of Sokka pressing forward.

It was terrible. All of the tender care that had been put into slicking the way meant nothing to a body that was tense from fear and reluctance, and Zuko smothered his face into the furs to make sure Sokka couldn’t see the way his jaw clenched and his eyes screwed shut. The pressure built and built until Zuko feared he would start screaming if it didn’t stop, before the head finally slipped in and they both groaned quietly. 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe,_ Zuko reminded himself. _Don’t burn the furs. Don’t burn the furs or he’ll know._

It took what felt like forever for Sokka to bottom out, and the water tribesman exhaled raggedly as he pressed his sweaty forehead between Zuko’s shoulders, making him flinch in surprise.

“You’re doing great,” Sokka murmured, running his fingertips up and down Zuko’s back and leaving goosebumps in his wake. It felt like something a lover would do—a real, _true_ lover—and that only hardened Zuko’s heart even further.

The moment Sokka’s lips pressed against the knobs of his spine, Zuko shouldered him off with a murmured, “Don’t kiss me.”

Sokka snatched his hands away like Zuko’s skin was made of acid, and Zuko immediately regretted it as he watched him wrap his hands around the bedposts instead. He still couldn’t see Sokka’s face, but he knew he must’ve been frustrated, considering how he began to move without asking. It was slow at first, a torturous drag in and out, but gradually gained momentum until their bodies were colliding with enough force to make Zuko’s bones rattle. The slap of their skin throughout the room was loud and mortifying.

“Fuck,” Sokka grunted, his knuckles going white around the bedposts as he rutted into Zuko, chasing the pleasure. “Shit.”

 _At least one of us is having a good time,_ Zuko thought bitterly as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth with every thrust and fought back the tears that just kept coming.

Sokka’s next slam into Zuko’s body was a bit harder than all of the others, and Zuko couldn’t help but wince. The noise seemed to jerk Sokka out of his haze of pleasure, and he gasped and went completely still.

“Are you alright? Shit, I totally forgot to check in—"

“Just shut up and fuck me. If you keep breaking your rhythm, it’ll take longer.”

“I’m such an asshole. I’m hurting you and I was too stupid to notice—"

“Good spirits, stop worrying about it! Consummate the fucking marriage already.”

Sokka made an irritated noise in his throat that sounded like it would more likely come from his pet dire wolf before reluctantly resuming his pace. He’d let go of the bedposts and planted his hands on Zuko’s waist, his fingers digging in so he could yank Zuko’s body back to meet his thrusts. The bruises would probably look fantastic come morning. Sokka had been fumbling and hesitant at first, but he quickly found what felt good, and Zuko let out a shuddering breath—this was what he’d been expecting: Sokka pounding into him like he was a bitch in heat.

No more check-ins, no more words of encouragement. Just a means to an end.

Zuko was to blame for this, he realized. Their wedding night could’ve been more, but Zuko had kept pushing away and throwing walls up, had been too afraid that enjoying himself meant he was some kind of slut who didn’t know how to take a punishment.

_You don’t deserve those nice kisses and gentle touches anymore,_ Zuko thought miserably. _You dug your own grave, and now you have to lie in it. This is your fault._

Sokka slammed home once more and Zuko had to smother his sob into the furs, for once glad for the smack of skin and Sokka’s noises of pleasure. It didn’t take long for Zuko to realize Sokka was close—his thrusts had gotten more erratic, and he was breathing more shallowly than before. The collision of their bodies grew rougher, but Zuko still managed to stay silent save for the occasional huff or wince.

But suddenly there were nimble fingers wrapping around his soft dick, jerking him in time with the rhythm, and Zuko’s muscles locked up as he untangled his fingers from the sheets and slapped the hand away.

“Hey, I was just—!”

“Don’t touch me. _Please_ don’t touch me.”

It took Sokka a while to cum after that, the small squabble having thrown him off his game and out of the mood, and it came to the point where Zuko purposefully tried to clench around him so it would go faster, even if it did make it hurt more. When he did finally get around to it, slamming deep inside with a groan, Zuko realized how much he hated himself.

“There,” Sokka growled, pulling away sharply and making them both grimace. “I did it just like how you wanted.”

Zuko lifted his head from the furs slowly, trying to force himself to rise to his feet, but his legs were shaking and he felt terrible all over.

“It could’ve been good, you know.” Sokka was throwing on his undergarments, his face twisted with fury. “We both could’ve had a nice time.”

Zuko finally managed to drag himself upright, his lower half all out of sorts and his face feeling so hot it was like his father was burning him all over again.

“Is that a washroom?” he whispered, pointing to one of the doors leading off of the room.

“That’s the closet,” Sokka said as he crawled beneath the furs. “Washroom’s next to it.”

Zuko limped into the washroom— _good spirits, he could feel something starting to drip down his legs_ —and shut the door behind him.

The room was simple enough, made of all stone with a single window set into the wall, and consisted of an empty tub, a commode chair to sit while using the chamber pot, a mirror, and a pitcher of water with a white washcloth.

Zuko went over to the pitcher and dunked the washcloth into it so he could clean himself up, his face flushing even further when he had to reach between his legs and wipe up whatever horrid mess was down there. The cloth came back pink, which was to be expected, but the sight still made Zuko wish he could wither away into nothing.

Tossing the cloth back onto its table, Zuko crumpled to the ground and leaned his back up against the door, curling in on himself.

_Great spirits, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but please have mercy,_ he begged, his pursed lips starting to tremble. _Take me away, kill me where I stand, anything. Please. PLEASE. I can’t live with this._

He took in a deep, shaky breath in hopes it would calm him down, but when he went to exhale it came out as a soft sob. He tried again. And again. And again.

The sobs got louder and louder each time until he was breaking down, wailing and hiccupping miserably into his hands. His face became a mess of tears and snot as his humiliation and sorrow dragged him down into their gnarled grasp. Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut like a good son at his father’s war meeting? Why had he been so stupid? Why couldn’t he be more like Azula?

There came a sound of floorboards creaking—Sokka hauling himself out of bed, no doubt—and Zuko tensed up and desperately tried to smother his cries, but his chest was heaving and the tears just would not stop. The footsteps grew louder and stopped on the other side of the door, and Zuko pursed his lips tightly to try to stifle his sobs.

“Zuko.” Sokka didn’t sound irritated. Just tired.

“G-go a-away,” Zuko sniffled, deciding that trying to hide his wretchedness was useless at this point. “I n-need t-to be b-by m-myself.”

“You’re upset. Open up.”

“I s-said go away!”

“Do you need help? Did I hurt you?”

“If you don’t go back to bed right now and m-mind your own business, I’m gonna burn you from beneath the d-door.”

He didn’t think he had the focus to conjure even a spark at this point, but the threat made him feel at least a little bit in control of himself.

“I don’t care, and it _is_ my business. I need to know if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine. Now f-fuck off and leave me alone.”

Sokka let out a heavy sigh, shifting his weight and making the boards creak, before shuffling back to bed muttering to himself under his breath.

It took Zuko a while to calm down.

After about an hour, he could choke back his sobs. Twenty minutes after that, he was finally able to stop trembling. By the time he’d dragged himself out of his pit of self-loathing—spirits knew how long it’d been at that point—he’d gone completely numb. 

He was too exhausted and emotionally drained to care that he was still naked as he slipped out of the washroom and padded over to the bed. Sokka looked like a shapeless lump beneath all of the furs, and didn’t even look up when he entered. Perhaps he was asleep.

Zuko only hesitated for a few moments before slipping into bed beside him, pulling the furs all the way up to his chin and making sure that they both had their backs to each other. His side of the bed faced the window, and though it was dark, Zuko could see the snowflakes that were fluttering by and gathering on the sill. It was pretty, but he had no doubt that he would be sick of it by the end of the first week.

His first week of many. His first week of the rest of his life.

Sokka shifted around beside him, making the furs rustle, and let out a heavy breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. Zuko could feel his body heat radiating against his back, and all it did was remind him of their consummation all over again. He’d have to live with this man for the rest of his days. A man who was disgusted by him, who hated him. He’d waste away and die here, shackled to a snowy wasteland and a foreign family name by a loveless marriage. Zuko screwed his eyes tightly shut, a single tear escaping and slipping down his cheek.

“I’m sorry you had to marry me,” he whispered to the window before he could stop himself.

A long stretch of silence hung thick in the air before there came a growled, “Me, too” from the other side of the bed. The words cut sharper than any knife ever could.

 _This is what it’s going to be. It’s cruel and horrible, and this is what it will be like until you die._

Zuko could feel the anguish welling up in the back of his throat again, could feel himself starting to crumble to pieces all over again.

_Please, great spirits, please…_

“Wait!” Sokka’s sudden cry made Zuko jolt, and he wiped viciously at his face as Sokka rolled over so that his chest was against Zuko’s back. “That came out wrong. I shouldn’t’ve said it like that.”

“What do you mean?” Zuko asked, struggling to keep his voice even before hesitantly turning to face Sokka.

He was closer than Zuko had thought, his blue eyes smoldering in the moonlight and his breath fanning over Zuko’s face.

“I said ‘me too.’ It made it sound like I was _also_ sorry that I had to marry you and….and that’s a screwed-up thing to say. I actually meant that I’m sorry that _you_ had to marry _me_. Kind of like a vice versa.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…so…sorry.”

Sokka turned back around quickly after that, as if the apology had burned him, and Zuko decided it would be best if he did the same.

They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the night, lying awake with their backs to one another and staring into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about the worst wedding ever...but hey, at least the Rains of Castamere didn't start playing. So...yay, I guess? They're husbands now? What do you guys think, and what are your predictions for what will come next????
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you liked it! These chapters take a lot of time and effort to write and edit, and feedback makes me write them super fast!


	8. The Garden of Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka and Zuko start learning how to overcome their differences. Gran Gran returns to Winterfell and a shocking discovery could very well mean chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**VIII.**

**THE GARDEN OF BONES**

The armies left two days later.

Winterfell came to life with a cacophony of pounding boots, raised voices, whickering horses, snorting rhinos, and clanking armor as the Starks’ forces—as well as the forces of the southern vassal Houses who’d sent forth their warriors to aid the cause—mounted their steeds along with the Targaryens. Banners of snarling dire wolves and three-headed dragons snapped in the wind, families bundled together in tearful farewell, and the air hummed with excited anticipation, like racehorses trembling at the starting gate.

Unlike the other children who were weeping over their departing mothers and fathers, Sokka was silent. His vision swam with the watery light of armor glittering in the bleak noonday sun. 

“We’ll be back before you know it!” Hakoda assured, though his and Bato’s smiles were strained. “Perhaps even before the thaw.”

“That would be fantastic!” Katara cried. She was holding onto his arm like a child afraid of being alone, her lips trembling when she spoke despite her joyful acting. “We’ll throw a big party for you when you return! Even bigger than the wedding!”

“I’m counting on that,” Hakoda laughed, bundling Katara into a tight hug. He reached out to Sokka, but Sokka stayed put, his hands clasped in front of him. His father’s happy façade wavered for a split second before returning with determined force. “C’mon Sokka, one last hug for your pops?”

Sokka didn’t say anything. He was too full of pride, too bitter with hate.

“Sokka, please hug him,” Katara pleaded. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

The words _“Because he might not come back”_ hung in the air like fog, but Sokka had the stubbornness of a Stark and enough rage humming in his veins for several lifetimes, and a part of him wanted his father to know how it felt to be abandoned. He wanted his father to have a taste of the anguish festering in his gut ever since he’d said his vows. Hakoda’s wide, sad eyes never left Sokka’s as he held Katara tighter, kissing her forehead before withdrawing to his horse.

Red Ghost was too old to ride on the march, so his father was taking one of Bato’s horses instead. It’d always been considered bad luck in water tribe culture to ride someone else’s horse to war; according to the shaman, the bond between a steed and their master was powerful protection magic, and heading off to battle without that was practically a death sentence. The shaman had been wrong before, though…like that thing about snow on your wedding.

The sight of Hakoda wiping furiously at his face as he leapt into the saddle almost made Sokka break, almost made him run over and tackle his father into a hug that he’d never let go of, and he had to avert his gaze to Zuko to distract himself. The Targaryen prince had said farewell to his father and sister and had now dragged Iroh into a suffocating hug, his head buried into the man’s shoulder and his shoulders shaking with suppressed cries.

“Is everyone ready?” Ozai boomed, his voice ringing against the walls like the screech of a dragon. Iroh had to extricate himself from Zuko’s arms and head to his mount, turning away with a face shining with tears as Zuko crumbled to his knees in the snow, reaching out for him and begging him not to leave.

Sokka, of course, had to be the one to console him, and trudged over to stand by his husband’s side. The hand he offered was shrugged off miserably as Zuko hiccupped and choked on his own sobs. Though the boy irritated him to no end, Sokka had to admit that he felt bad for him as they watched the waterbenders on the battlements open up the gates with a deafening shriek of hinges. Several soldiers had to yank on their horses’ reins to keep them from bursting out into the snow; these steeds were the children of the ones who’d fought during the war with the Greyjoys—they’d never seen real battle, and they were frothing at the mouth with eagerness to get going.

“Warriors!” Hakoda’s voice. Sokka desperately searched the crowd for his father, but he’d been lost to the churning mass of bodies. He wished he could just get a glimpse of him, one last look at his face before he left, but fate was stingy with its mercies. “Move out!”

Zuko turned his head away as the air came alive with squealing carriage wheels, drumming hooves, and the heavy tread of the Komodo rhinos, the army streaming out of Winterfell like sand in an hourglass. Sokka kept his gaze trained straight ahead, determined to not let weakness get the best of him. His lip quivered, but that was all, before the doors finally slammed shut with a note of solemn finality.

For a few moments, the whole world was still. Families stood staring, dumbstruck and wondering what to possibly do next. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—all gone. Sokka’s gaze flitted to Katara, who was twisting her fingers into Jet’s fur and staring off into nothing. How could his father allow her to be the last waterbending master in Winterfell? What if they were attacked while they were vulnerable? How could they defend themselves? How could they heal their sick and wounded? Katara couldn’t do everything by herself.

Sokka was the first one to break the stillness, whistling to Yue and watching as the dire wolf abandoned her desperate flirting with the butcher and his fresh veal in favor of trotting over. The noise shattered the silence, and everyone shook their heads clear and continued about their lives with determination set into their faces like stone. Zuko didn’t move, still hunched over on his knees hugging himself.

“You okay?” Sokka shoved down his embarrassment as people filtered past and gave them odd looks “Come on, get up. We’re blocking the way.”

When Zuko didn’t answer, Sokka took Zuko from under one arm and hauled him to his feet with a bit less gentleness than a spouse should provide. Zuko’s knees buckled— _is the little shit really throwing a temper tantrum right now?_ —and Sokka’s fingers dug in hard to keep him upright.

He leaned in, his teeth bared. “Enough. It’s our first day as the Lords of Winterfell, and you’re already making fools out of the both of us.”

Zuko wrenched away from him, wiping furiously at his face before storming off, and Sokka didn’t bother to check where he was going; maybe if he let the dude sulk for a while, he’d calm the fuck down. Nevertheless, he still leaned over to Yue and murmured, “Keep an eye on him, will you? Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The last thing he needed was for Zuko to go into the Weirwood again and get himself killed, and though Yue gave him a look like she’d rather do anything else than be on husband babysitting duty, she grumbled and prowled away in the direction Zuko had run off. Sokka watched her go until she disappeared into the crowd before seeking out the shaman, who was waiting off to the side with a knowing look on his face. In the absence of any experienced warriors to offer him guidance, the shaman was going to act as Sokka’s advisor for the time being, like how Bato had advised Hakoda.

“Good morning, sir,” Sokka greeted with a bow. The resident shaman of Winterfell was the only one in the South who had a higher rank than a Lord who bore the name Stark. “I pray you had a pleasant night’s rest.”

“Indeed I did, Sokka.” The shaman grinned and ruffled Sokka’s hair, and Sokka recalled the shining days of his youth when he’d go to this shaman when he’d scraped his knee or caught a chill. “How was your first day with your husband?”

As was tradition, Sokka and Zuko hadn’t been allowed to leave their room yesterday. They were supposed to have spent their time…getting busy…but had barely spoken a word to each other as servants moved in all of the wedding gifts and Zuko’s belongings, transforming Sokka’s carefully decorated room into a jumbled, eclectic water tribe and fire nation eyesore.

“It was excellent, thank you,” Sokka lied, recalling how he’d sat hunched at his desk writing letters to his mom while Zuko fussed over the stupid pineapple dragon eggs, claiming that ‘they had to be surrounded by candles or a source of fire at all times or else it’d be sacrilege blah blah blah blah…’

“Don’t fret if your relationship is a bit tumultuous at first. Couples often need time to get their sea legs before their love truly blossoms.”

“Thank you for the advice, sir,” Sokka said through clenched teeth. He was eager to change the subject. “So, what are today’s duties looking like?”

“We have quite a lot of things to address. Are you sure you don’t wish to wait for Lord Zuko to join us? I have to admit that it’s a daunting workload, and an extra set of hands could be a great help.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m letting him take the time he needs to get used to Winterfell. His family leaving has hit him very hard, and I wouldn’t want to overburden him with work on top of that.”

The shaman nodded as if Sokka hadn’t just pulled that excuse straight out of his ass, and Sokka let out a ragged breath of relief when the man motioned him in the direction of his father’s study, which was close to the war room as to assure that he could cross-reference the materials on his desk with the ones scattered about on the negotiating table.

The study was small, at least for a Lord. A fireplace roared off to one side, decorated with odd knick-knacks that the Starks had collected on their travels, while a gigantic family portrait hung behind the desk from when Hakoda had first become the Lord of Winterfell. A much younger version of his father stood behind a high-backed chair that his mother was sitting in, holding a swaddled baby Katara while Sokka sat on the floor next to her with a dumb look on his face. He supposed that when his father died, he and Zuko would have to sit for a portrait together, but hopefully that time was a long way off.

The desk was just how Hakoda had left it, cluttered with letters and forms and all kinds of junk, and the chair was pushed out, as if his father had left to go to the bathroom and was expected to return shortly. When Sokka was younger, before he grew into his aversion toward anything and everything that had to do with being the Lord of Winterfell, he used to sit in his father’s lap at this desk and pretend he was the new Lord Stark. The other Lords and Ladies of the South had fawned over him excessively, so his father had let him doodle all over important letters and correspondence just to have a break from all the drudgery. Sometimes, he’d even let Sokka sign his name and stamp the seal, too.

Speaking of, Sokka had to bite back his tears at the sight of a single silver ring at the center of the mess that bore the seal of House Stark. Up until that point, he’d never seen his father without it.

“Go on, Sokka. It won’t bite.” The shaman’s hand was warm on his shoulder. “But think about it; this will be fantastic experience for when your father passes and you must fully assume the role of the Lord of Winterfell. Think of this as little trial period until he returns.”

“But what if he doesn’t return?”

“He will. The world has never seen a force as powerful as the dragon and the wolf working side-by-side. House Baratheon doesn’t stand a chance.”

Sokka could only hope the shaman was right, and he exhaled raggedly as he took his seat in the leather chair, staring down at the clusters of papers whose words he barely understood. He slipped on the silver ring—it was cold to the touch, but Sokka liked to think that the tiniest amount of his father’s body heat still lingered—and set to work.

It was even worse than Sokka had imagined it being. Letters from distant relatives had to be answered (He didn’t even know half these people!), imports and exports had to be filed and documented (who knew the South had a thing for fire flakes?), lesser Houses’ requests for supplies had to be approved or disapproved (seriously, what could House Manderly possibly have going on that prompted a need for one hundred and ten horses?), and events for upcoming holidays had to be organized (The next holiday was three months from now. Why the hell did they have to start preparation so early?). It didn’t help that just when he thought he’d made a dent in the pile, the mail carrier whisked in with another stack of letters, papers, and scrolls that he unceremoniously dumped on top of what he was already doing.

Lunch was served to him at his desk, but he barely touched it, and by the time the torches burned low and the dinner horn sounded, he was burnt out. How had his father managed to do all this work every single day and then come home and be a dad? A part of him was glad that he and Zuko could never have children.

The dining hall was a lot quieter than usual. Many seats on the benches were empty. Sokka wondered how many would remain empty once this war was over, if there’d be noticeable gaps in the seating when everyone returned. Zuko and Katara were waiting for him at the head table, with Yue and Jet lying at their feet gnawing on scrap bones, and although Katara offered him a wave, Zuko only glared as he took his seat between them.

“You didn’t need to send your dog after me,” he growled, stabbing at his turtleduck breast. “It’s been stalking me all day.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid,” Sokka deadpanned, ignoring his husband’s indignant snarl as he tucked into his meal. “Also, you smell like a horse.”

“Wow, I wonder why.”

“You were at the stables?”

“Yeah. I wanted to meet my new horse, Summer.”

Sokka would’ve scolded him for shortening his horse’s sacred title, but at least he was using _part of it_ and hadn’t given him some other ludicrous name. “Did you like him?”

“He’s a bit bumpier than Turtleduck, and more stubborn. Harder to stay on.”

“You actually rode him?”

Zuko paused his chewing and gave Sokka a look. “Uh…yes. I did. For what other reason would I go to the stables, dumbass? There’s a little paddock at the end of the aisle, and some stable boys stood by to give me some pointers.”

“Oh…that’s good. We should go riding sometime.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The rest of the dinner was spent making meaningless talk with Katara, who was now in charge of guard rotations, watch duty, patrols, and training the young waterbenders—all at the same time. They bonded over their shared hatred of their new duties, and for a while Sokka could pretend that things were normal; his sister grounded him, made him feel like something more than a scarecrow to be ushered from one place to the next, and she always found a way to see the positives in everything.

“Besides, Gran Gran’s supposed to be coming back tomorrow!” she pointed out with a grin. “It’ll be good to have her advice, especially since she served as the Lady of Winterfell for so long.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about the Last Hearth. It’s been ages since we’ve been there.”

“As if Gran Gran would tell us anything positive about the Last Hearth. She’ll probably just complain the whole time about how cold it was.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Sokka was ravenous from not having eaten all day, and he gobbled down about a family’s portion of roasted turtleduck before dinner concluded, all while Zuko watched on with mild disgust and perhaps a bit of uneasiness. They bade farewell to Katara and various other nobles before retiring to their room, and while Zuko took his nightwear to the bathroom, Sokka changed beside the bed as quickly as he could. Wasn’t it pitiful, how two newlyweds couldn’t bear the sight of one another nude?

Sokka was just pulling on his socks when there came a scratching from the door—Yue back from her after-dinner romp, no doubt—and he scurried over to let her inside; at least with Yue here, he wouldn’t have to bear the burden of Zuko’s company alone. Yue trotted into the room with snow dusting her fur like a layer of sugar, and shook herself off as the wind howled outside. Winter was rolling in faster than Sokka had ever seen it before, and he added another log to the fire to ward off the chill.

He had to be careful not to trip over the stone dragon eggs that Zuko had laid out reverently in front of the mantle; they’d exhausted Sokka’s stash of candles because of Zuko’s stupid rule, and to prevent further waste, Sokka had insisted they just keep the eggs by the fireplace that was burning all day anyway. Zuko hadn’t been happy in the slightest, but had grudgingly agreed as long as he could keep them on a long silk pillow that was very flammable and had no business being that close to a fireplace, though Sokka had indulged him because he hadn’t wanted to deal with a cranky husband.

Speaking of, the moment Zuko stepped out of the bathroom, he gasped when he saw Yue standing at Sokka’s side, wagging her tail as he browsed his bookshelf for a good novel to occupy himself with.

“What’s that thing doing in here?!” Zuko cried, making the both of them whirl around. He’d taken his hair out of that stupid royal bun, and it fell in a shaggy mess around his head. “It’s supposed to be in the kennels!”

The moment the word ‘kennels’ left Zuko’s mouth, Yue began to growl, and Sokka planted his hand on the wolf’s back to keep her from doing anything stupid.

“Yue doesn’t sleep in the kennels,” Sokka told Zuko calmly.

“Well, she’s not sleeping in here! She’s going to get fur everywhere—"

“And what of it? She was here first.”

“Wow. It sure makes me feel _great_ knowing my husband will choose his dog over my comfort,” Zuko spat, folding his arms over his chest. “Just fantastic.”

“While Yue here has shown me love and affection for the past eight years, my dearest husband has done nothing but piss me off for _two weeks!_ ”

“Oh, so now it’s a crime that I don’t want hair all over me?”

“She doesn’t shed that much in the winter! It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll get used to it.”

“ _Don’t tell me that I’ll get used to it!_ ” Zuko roared, and Sokka flinched when a burst of flame erupted from his mouth. “That’s all I’ve been told over and over and over again, from everyone I’ve ever known! It’s always ‘You’ll get used to the cold, Zuko’ or ‘You’ll get used to being a Stark, Zuko’ or ‘You’ll get used to having a husband who will hate you more than life, Zuko!’ Well, I’m TIRED of it! I’m tired of dealing with things, tired of ‘just getting used to’ my whole life because I have absolutely no control over anything that I do!”

The fireplace leapt up into the chimney with a howl of banked flame before the logs withered to cinders and the room was plunged into a sullen darkness, lit only by a sputtering oil lamp by the bed. Neither of them spoke—even Yue had stopped growling—and the wind outside picked up to fill in the silence.

Then Zuko, softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine.” Sokka felt his way around the room, grabbed an armful of kindling, and threw it on top of the pile of ashes that had once been barely-touched logs. He fumbled for the flint and struck a flame before Zuko could think to step in, once again bathing the room in flickering light. “I’ll give Yue a spot by the fire, how about that? She doesn’t have to go on the bed.”

“Okay.” Zuko was wringing his hands like a child expecting punishment, and Sokka did his best to act as nonchalant as possible as he unrolled one of his extra pelts and unfurled it in front of the fire place. Yue gave him a look.

“Come on, girl, it’s not that bad. Don’t be a drama queen.”

Yue grumbled in a way that sounded like how Gran Gran always did when she complained about her joints, reluctantly dragging herself over and curling up on the pelt. Sokka would have to try to convince Zuko to let Yue on the bed sometime, but for now he knew that he had to put a little more effort into making Zuko comfortable in Winterfell. He imagined the roles being reversed, imagined being carted away to Capital City and becoming Sokka Targaryen, and knew that he would’ve had a lot of trouble adjusting, too. He was pretty sure he would’ve been less of an asshole about it, but despite all that, Zuko still deserved the bare minimum of respect.

“Do you want anything?” Sokka asked as his husband crawled beneath the covers, pulling the furs up to his chin. “I can get you a book to read, if you want.”

“Uh, sure.”

“Anything specific?”

Zuko hesitated, pondering for a moment before deciding, “Do you think you could bring me that copy of _Love Amongst the Dragons_ that Lady Glover gave me? It really was a magnificent gift; I have to remember to thank her the next time we meet. Did she go off on the march?”

_Lady Glover wanted to kill you,_ Sokka thought as he rooted around in the pile of presents that they still hadn’t found a place for. _She wanted your entire family slaughtered. If you hadn’t looked at me during the cleric’s speech, I probably might’ve let it happen._

Aloud, he replied, “No, she didn’t, but two of her sons did.”

“Then I’ll send a messenger hawk to the Last Hearth at once.”

“The Last Hearth is House Umber’s stronghold. The Glovers’ is Deepwood Motte.”

“Oh, sorry.” Zuko propped himself up on the headboard with a couple of pillows. “I was never all that good with memorizing things about Houses. My sister was, though.”

“You and me both. Katara can pick up things so fast. Perhaps if I applied myself a bit more, I’d be able to do the same, but…” Sokka shook his head, finally finding _Love Amongst the Dragons_ and bringing it over to the bed. He himself had chosen a copy of a classic epic poem he’d liked as a kid. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t stick.”

Zuko offered him a wry smile as he took the book from him. “I think it’s foolish to waste time memorizing everything when you can have advisors who can memorize it for you.”

“Exactly!” Sokka agreed. He tucked himself under the covers as far as he could get from Zuko, but surprisingly enough, being in the same bed wasn’t as awkward as it’d been the past two days. “But at the same time, it’s good for a Lord to know everything about the kingdoms he’s dealing with.”

Zuko hummed in agreement, already opened up to the first page, and Sokka cracked open his own book as lapsed into a tranquil silence, and…in spite of everything, Sokka found himself settling down. It was kind of tranquil, being honest; though having a room to himself was great, there was something special about sharing it—like having Yue cuddling with him, but better. As he sat at Zuko’s side and basked in the firebender body heat radiating off of him while the flames crackled and the wind howled outside, he couldn’t help but feel at peace.

He also couldn’t help but feel distracted. Zuko’s breathing. The crackle of pages turning. Yue snuffling in her sleep. The whisper of shifting fabric when Zuko adjusted himself to a more comfortable position. All of it was like dry tinder to the fire of Sokka’s wandering mind, and he frequently found himself having to go back several paragraphs or pages in his book because he hadn’t absorbed anything. His eyes flitted to Zuko. Often. His face was so much softer when he wasn’t stewing and angry, when he was just…sitting there being human.

He was in the middle of contemplating what excuse he’d use to scoot closer when Zuko caught him staring and, floundering for something to say, hastily asked, “What are you reading?”

“Oh, well, um…” Sokka should’ve chosen a better book to read, one that made him seem smart and witty instead of childish. “It’s…uh…it’s an epic poem my mom used to read to me. A… fairy tale, of sorts.”

“What’s it called?”

Shit. He should’ve thought of a new name. Something, anything, to make him seem less stupid. After much deliberation, he finally admitted, “It’s _The Rains of Castamere._ Pretty basic, I know.”

“ _The Rains of Castamere_?” Zuko asked, pressing a bookmark between the pages of _Love Amongst the Dragons_ and setting it off to the side. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Yeah, right,” Sokka scoffed, closing the book sheepishly but keeping his thumb wedged in the pages to mark his spot. “It’s okay to say it’s stupid for me to be reading it. I totally understand.”

“No, I’m serious. I don’t know what it is.”

Sokka gave him a funny look. “Stop teasing. I already said it was okay to think it’s weird.”

“I promise, I’m not lying!” Zuko insisted with a scowl. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me about your stupid book, then I don’t want to hear it. Be like that, then.”

Wow. The dude wasn’t kidding. “No, it’s just…everyone knows _The Rains of Castamere_.”

Zuko rolled his eyes. “Things that are popular in the South aren’t necessarily popular where I’m from.”

“Dude, this was written by a northerner; we literally had this copy imported from Ba Sing Se. It’s the classic to end all classics—earth kingdom, water tribe, fire nation, you name it. Any House from any region would know _The Rains of Castamere._ ”

“Are you sure? Maybe it’s not as popular as you think it is.”

“No way. It’s had plays and songs and paintings made from it. People name their children after the characters…well, most of them were real historical figures, but still. The amount of Ellyns and Tions I’ve met—”

“And this came out recently?” Zuko had grown uneasy, and he wriggled closer to Sokka so he could peer at the two warring lions on the cover, though his golden eyes held not a single flicker of familiarity. “Like a pop culture phenomenon?”

“You don’t seem to understand. This has been a classic for _ages;_ it came out before my grandparents were born.”

That only seemed to freak Zuko out even more, and his brow furrowed. “Maybe it goes by a different title in Capital City. What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s about the rebellion of House Reyne against House Lannister. It’s part historical record, part story. Most of it’s become legend, really.”

Sokka expected Zuko to perk up at the explanation, to let out a breath of relief and declare, _“Ohhhh you mean THIS book”_ but nothing of the sort happened; he still seemed just as lost as before, and the situation started to migrate from comical to concerning.

“Are you pranking me, Sokka?” Zuko demanded, though his face was creased with worry. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s not,” Sokka promised. “I swear on my mother’s grave that it’s not. Ask anyone around here—ambassadors and locals alike. They’ll tell you.”

“Read some of it to me. Just to be sure.”

“Okay. I’ll skip to the good parts. The ones that almost anyone in the world would be able to quote.”

Sokka cracked open the book once more, flipping through the pages while Zuko skirted even closer, hovering over his shoulder and trying to pick up bits and pieces of the story while Sokka skipped through it. Sokka swallowed around the lump in his throat and tried not to focus too hard on the firebender’s shoulder just barely brushing his.

“So, basically it all started when a vassal House betrayed its Lord. A long time ago, House Reyne was sworn to House Lannister…a House you probably already know.” Sokka cast a sideways glance Zuko’s way, but he ignored him. “They were often compared to one another because the Reynes had a red lion as their sigil and the Lannisters have a gold lion as their sigil. Anyway, House Reyne had prospered under Lannister rule, and had acquired a great amount of gold from them, but after the War of the Ninepenny Kings—”

“I know that war!” Zuko exclaimed proudly. “Glad I’m not _completely_ in the dark.”

“—the Lannisters needed their gold back, but Lord Reyne laughed and told his vassals to do nothing. When the Lannisters threatened punishment, a rebellion broke out, and the Lannisters marched on the Reyne stronghold of Castamere, slaughtering them. Do you know how they did it?”

“How?”

“Beneath Castamere were a bunch of empty mines, where the Reynes had taken refuge after being defeated on the battlefield. The Lannisters sealed up all the exits and diverted a nearby river into the mine, drowning all of them.”

Zuko’s breath hitched. “But…just the soldiers, right?”

“No. All of them. Lord Reyne had even offered terms of surrender, but they did it anyway.” He tried not to allude to the many atrocities Zuko’s own family had committed, things much worse than drowning, but Zuko must’ve seen the look on his face, because he turned his head away sharply.

“Just read.”

Sokka tried not to look too smug as he cleared his throat, peering down at the words delicately inked onto the page. “‘And who are you,’ The proud Lord said, ‘That I must bow so low?’ Only a cat of a different coat; that's all the truth I know. ‘In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, and mine are long and sharp, my lord—as long and sharp as yours.’”

“He shouldn’t have provoked them like that,” Zuko pointed out, and Sokka wasn’t surprised that he was the kind of person who would interrupt the middle of a story for commentary. He himself had been the same way before Katara had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t stop. “The Lannisters are…quite unpredictable. If I hadn’t been betrothed to you, I probably would’ve married one of them.”

Sokka’s brows leapt into his hairline. “Really?”

“Yeah. I…had a fling on and off with the heir, Mai. The matchmaker really liked the pairing, and it would’ve…” He shook his head clear. “Never mind. It’s in the past now. Just…keep going.”

Sokka opened his mouth to pry, but Zuko had gone all sullen like how he did when he was upset, so instead he continued on, “And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere. But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear.”

After Sokka trailed off awkwardly, Zuko asked, “Why’d you stop?”

“That’s the end of the quotable part. Those lines were the ones made into the Lannister anthem, and the lines that everyone can recite from memory, so…”

“But I want to know what happens.”

“You already know what happens.”

“Yeah, but I want to actually—”

“Would you rather me start from the beginning?”

Zuko ducked his head, and Sokka didn’t miss the rosiness of his cheeks. “If you don’t mind.”

So Sokka flipped back to the beginning and began to read, not stopping until the fire had burned low and Zuko was sound asleep against his shoulder. His lips were parted slightly, as if his slumber had caught him by surprise, and Sokka couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across his face as he extricated himself from Zuko’s weight and lowered them both into the pillows, pulling the furs up to keep them warm.

It didn’t take him long to fall asleep, and his last conscious thought before slumber takes him is, _Alright. We’ll get through this._

A loud rapping against the door woke Sokka the next morning, and both he and Zuko jolted upright just as Katara barged into the room with Jet at her heels, her face alight with glee. Yue scrambled to her feet, yipping excitedly, and leapt up onto Katara as she stumbled over to the bed.

“Get up!” she cried—good spirits, how did she have this much energy so early in the morning?—as she grabbed Sokka’s foot beneath the covers and yanked on it. “Gran Gran’s back!”

Sokka was toppling out of bed before she’d finished getting the words out, and Zuko followed in suit as Sokka hastily tied his hair up and rifled through his dresser for a tunic and parka.

“You might want to put on something warm today,” Katara advised Zuko when he automatically reached for his usual fire nation wear. “We had a really bad cold snap last night that came out of nowhere. The temperature dropped so quick that a few horses outside collapsed from shock.”

“Is Summer alright?” Zuko asked, his brows drawing up.

“Yes, Summer’s fine. I helped the farmhands close up the stables with ice for the winter this morning, and that’s how I found out that Gran Gran was back.”

They changed in a whirl, with Zuko even accepting one of Sokka’s fur cloaks for extra warmth, and set out into the cold hallway as fast as humanly possible. Yue and Jet had gotten riled up by the anticipation in the air, and were tripping over their own feet in their scramble to keep up, yelping and nipping at one another. Katara hadn’t been kidding about the cold snap; the sharp bite of the wind was brutal compared to the heavy, cozy warmth from inside Sokka’s room, and Sokka envied the dire wolves’ thick pelts that repelled snow and cold better than any cloak could.

Once they emerged from the fortress and out into the narrow paths of Winterfell, Sokka was keen to note how much emptier it seemed. A majority of the men, women, and teenagers of age had left on the march, and now all of the life that’d made the barrenness of the South Pole somewhat bearable had drained from Winterfell like a leak in a bucket. They passed the usual band of children sullenly poking holes in snow drifts, mourning the loss of their parents and their newfound fire nation friends, and Sokka realized how bad it’d gotten when none of them ran up to pet Yue and Jet.

“We should hold a ceremony or party sometime tomorrow,” Zuko suggested as they slowed to a walk. “Perhaps with some singing and dancing? That might cheer everyone up.”

“Yeah!” Katara chimed in. She was having trouble keeping up, what with Sokka’s growth spurt that hit when he was seventeen, and it was amusing to watch how fast her short legs had to work to hold the pace. “We could do an outdoor bonfire with some leftovers from the wedding feast, too. And I could have my trainees do a waterbending demonstration.”

“That…actually sounds great,” Sokka admitted, grinning. “Good idea, Zuko.”

“Why do you sound so surprised? You keep forgetting that _I_ was the one training to be firelord before Azula was named crown princess,” he huffed, and though he did a good job of hiding his bitterness with humor, Sokka could hear it crawling up into his words. “I know a thing or two about cheering up unhappy citizens.”

“I don’t doubt it. You probably paid much better attention than he did in class,” Katara retorted, ignoring Sokka’s glare, and out of the corner of his eye Zuko smothered a laugh with a mitten-covered hand.

Gran Gran and her entourage were waiting for them in the courtyard, and Sokka couldn’t help the way his face lit up at the sight of his grandmother dismounting her horse. Around her, a group of five warriors were unloading her ungodly amount of luggage from their travel-weary steeds, and the glitter of their armor only served to remind Sokka of his father.

He wondered where he was. They’d no doubt reached the coastline by now, so it was most likely that they’d boarded the Targaryen’s gigantic iron ships and were cutting through the iceberg-speckled southern waters at that very moment. Katara had been right. He wished he’d said goodbye.

“Gran Gran!” Katara cried, taking off toward her with Sokka hot on her heels, and the two of them just short of bowled her over as they bundled her into a tight hug.

“I missed my little wolf pups,” Gran Gran laughed as she hugged them tightly. She had frost in her hair and crusted on her eyelashes, but her eyes were as bright as ever. “Have you grown since I last saw you?”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Sokka said with a roll of his eyes as he drew away. “And the medicine man said I’d stopped growing, remember?”

“Never underestimate a Stark’s power to grow.” Gran Gran reached down to pet Yue and Jet, who’d been pawing around in the snow impatiently; they’d been punished for knocking Gran Gran down enough times to learn not to pounce on her. “Your father was the shortest, scrawniest Stark I’d ever seen, but once he married your mother, he grew a foot and a half!”

“That’s not true!”

“Ah, but you can’t say that unless you were there to see it like I was,” Gran Gran chuckled and nudged him with her elbow. “Good spirits am I saddle sore! If die without ever riding a horse again, I’d be happy.”

“You should’ve taken a sled like we told you.”

“Bah! Sleds are for old people, and I refuse to admit I’m old yet! I’ve still got a few more good years left in me.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Sokka muttered, knowing fully well that the stronghold of a warring House wasn’t at all safe for the elderly, but before Gran Gran could answer, Katara was quick to change the subject.

“How was the Last Hearth?” Katara asked. She offered a nod to the Stark-sworn soldiers who’d returned along with her. They and the waterbender trainees would be her only help in the next coming months.

“Cold. Dreary. But the Umbers are excellent merrymakers. The wine and ale did flow quite a lot, and I do have some fine stories to tell once dinner rolls around. But first, we have more important things to discuss than my stuffy trip to the icy wastelands.”

Her gaze slid to a point over Sokka’s shoulder, and he turned to see Zuko hanging back sheepishly, bundled in furs with his cheeks and nose bitten red by the cold. If one considered his outfit alone, he could’ve been mistaken for a southerner who’d just come back from a trip North and wanted to show off his new souvenirs.

“Come here, boy,” Gran Gran growled, and Zuko stiffened but obeyed, shuffling over to stand by Sokka’s side. “You have a lot of nerve coming out here to see me. I thought my refusal to come to the wedding made it clear that I never wanted to set eyes on a Targaryen ever again.”

“Gran, I understand why you might be upset, but please refrain from using such harsh language,” Sokka found himself saying. He wondered why he sounded so defensive; yesterday, he would’ve had a ball watching his grandmother give Zuko a good tongue-lashing, but the sight of Zuko wringing his hands and standing straight, looking like a scolded puppy, made Sokka’s heart twinge. “Zuko is a part of our family now—a Stark. I vowed that he’d be shown respect.”

“If he wants my respect, he’s going to have to earn it.” Gran Gran looked Zuko over critically, and Sokka watched the firebender boy wither beneath the power of her stare. “The scar’s bigger than I thought.”

“Gran Gran!” Katara cried before Sokka could even open his mouth. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I’m very sorry, Lady Stark,” Zuko apologized miserably. “This is all very new to me, and—”

“Your father-in-law was a fool to let you marry my grandson. While I was at the Last Hearth, I couldn’t help but notice how Lord Umber has plenty of stunning sons and daughters that Sokka could’ve chosen from—with his looks and his name, he could’ve had his pick of the lot! And yet he got stuck with you. A northerner. A firebender. A _Targaryen_ , of all things! The only thing worse would’ve been a Greyjoy; even those swamp benders from House Reed are more trustworthy than some ash maker.”

Zuko’s face crumpled, and Sokka was quick to step between him and his grandmother. “That’s enough. You must be exhausted from your journey, Gran Gran. Perhaps you should rest before lunch is served.”

“You’d defend him over your own grandmother?”

“I swore a vow.”

“So did the Targaryens when they made a deal with the Avatar never to conquer again. Vows and oaths and swears are nothing compared to the greed of men.”

Before Sokka could open his mouth to reply, the shaman came jogging into the courtyard, his face ashen as he skidded to a stop. It was the fastest Sokka had seen him move in five years.

“My Lord,” he paused to take in a rattling heave of breath, “we have a problem.”

\---

Sokka stared down at the desecrated grave of his mother and wondered what he’d done in his life to deserve such misery.

Her statue was missing half of its face, the crypt itself ripped open as if someone had rigged it with explosives, and all of the flowers and gifts that he and his family had left for her before his wedding day were strewn in withered pieces about the catacombs.

“When did it happen?” Sokka asked the servant who’d discovered the ruin, not taking his eyes off of the gaping hole where his mother used to be. “Did you see anyone?”

“No, I didn’t,” the servant hiccupped. She was an older woman who’d worked for the family for years, and was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as a gaggle of other maids hovered around her in an attempt to console. “I came down to light all the candles for the morning, and I just found…” Her lip quivered, and she screwed her eyes shut and blew her nose. “Who would do something like this?”

It wasn’t just his mother. It was all of the Starks. Every single crypt had been ransacked.

Katara was currently cradling the broken half of their mother’s face in her lap, staring off emptily as she clutched the necklace at her throat. The thieves hadn’t stolen the note that she’d left the previous night, and she’d plucked the page from their mother’s fingertips and was reading it over, as if it would hold all of the answers and give clues to point them in the right direction. Whenever one of the servants or guards tried to console her, she’d wrench away from them.

_She probably thinks it’s her fault,_ Sokka realized. _But how could it be? Guards only patrol the battlements in pairs now—it would’ve been easy for an evildoer to sneak past them._

“I’m really sorry that this happened,” Zuko murmured, jolting Sokka out of his thoughts as he came up to stand beside him. The tips of his hair looked like strands of spun gold in the light of the torches. He was clearly still rattled from his encounter with Gran Gran, and Sokka was almost glad that she’d decided to return to her quarters instead of joining them. He couldn’t let her see this. “Someone has to be an entirely different level of cruel to tamper with the dead.”

“They didn’t even take anything,” Sokka rasped, forcing back tears. He didn’t even have the strength to pull away when Zuko put a hand on his shoulder. “The jewelry, the heirlooms, the gems. They’re…they’re all still there.”

“It’s not grave robbers, that’s for sure.” The shaman joined them with a stiff back and haggard eyes. His concern only made the wrinkled lines in his face crease deeper. “This wasn’t some cheap bid for riches, wasn’t the plight of a wayward thief down on his luck; no, this’d been calculated. It was a fear tactic.”

Sokka barely heard him. All he could think was that his mother’s body was out there somewhere, burned or buried or tossed into the sea along with the bodies of all of his ancestors. The only things that hadn’t been touched were the skulls of Viserion and the baker that’d been by Burlaq’s statue; the raiders had only been interested in _Stark_ bones.

“I remember seeing that House Umber had sent word of a serial grave robber earlier, back when I’d first been told of the betrothal. It’s the Greyjoys, I know it. They’ve been getting braver since they’ve had the dragons at their back.”

“But it couldn’t be!” Zuko insisted. “I thought they were allies now!”

“No, they’re not,” Sokka growled. “Just because we’ve allied with your family doesn’t mean we’re suddenly friends with all of your friends.”

“Well, whoever it was, we’ll find them.” The vehemence in Zuko’s voice made Sokka and the shaman exchanged a surprised glance. “And when we do, we’ll make them pay.”

_[You can listen to the Rains of Castamere here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECewrAld3zw)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry that this took so long! College has been swamping me with school work, I've been working hard on a personal project, and I've been having major writing block! 
> 
> Please please PLEASE leave a comment and kudos on this if you liked it to help me get re-inspired!


	9. A War Divides Their People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka and Zuko learn to work together as Winterfell recovers from tragedy, but a new dilemma may very well tear apart the relationship they’ve worked so hard to build.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning(s): Mentions of murder and genocide

**IX.**

**A WAR DIVIDES THEIR PEOPLE**

“Come on, you’ve got to eat.” Zuko set down a warm bowl of chicken soup in front of Sokka, uncaring of how he’d placed it on top of the letters that he was reading. “You haven’t touched a morsel since you picked at your dinner last night.”

A storm howled outside, turning the dusk sky completely black as if it were midnight, and Zuko’s cheeks were rosy from the cold. The fur cloak he’d borrowed was dusted with ten pounds’ worth of snow, and the flakes that still clung to Zuko’s hair and eyelashes made him look like he had a bad case of dandruff. The soup he’d brought had barely survived the trek from the dining hall, and it was a wonder that it hadn’t frozen solid along the way. 

“I’m not hungry,” Sokka muttered, pushing the bowl aside and making Zuko regret putting in the effort to bring it to him. “And didn’t I say not to interrupt me while I’m working?”

Zuko ignored him and shucked off his soggy mittens so he could warm his hands by the fire. “I refuse to believe that the same man who ate three household’s worth of food at our wedding is content with nothing but a few bites of seal sausage and potatoes for a day and a half.”

“I’m just not hungry, okay?” Sokka snapped. He finally met Zuko’s gaze, his skin sallow and the dark purple shadows beneath his eyes making it look like he’d gotten into a fistfight. “Please leave me alone.”

“Come on, eat up and let’s head back to our room. You haven’t come to bed for the past week.”

“I thought you’d enjoy that.”

Zuko’s expression contorted, and he would’ve spit out a scathing response and stormed out if he hadn’t realized that’s what Sokka _wanted_ to happen. He took in a deep, wavering breath—just like uncle had taught him—before stating in the calmest voice he could manage, “I want you to finish reading _The Rains of Castamere_ to me.”

“You can read, can you?”

“I don’t want to read it. I want _you_ to read it.”

“I’m not your mother.” Sokka grimaced the moment that accursed word left his mouth, looking away bitterly.

“Maybe not, but you’re my husband, and aren’t husbands supposed to do nice things for each other?” Zuko crossed his arms and took a seat at the edge of Sokka’s desk despite his grumbling. “I’ve been bringing your meals, riding our horses to keep them exercised, comforting your sister, and even playing with your dog. What have you done for me?”

“I’ve been keeping this place running, if that’s any consolation.”

“You know as well as I do that the work will never end, that you’ll never finish. Why waste time staying up all day and night doing it?”

Sokka didn’t answer, plucking a quill from the nearby inkwell and furiously signing his name on the paper he’d been staring at this whole time. It said something about grave robberies in Manderly Harbor, requesting aid.

“Listen, I know that thing with the catacombs has really taken a toll on you and Katara, but—”

“Shut up,” Sokka growled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know they’re going to find out who did it eventually, right?” Zuko snatched Sokka’s quill out of his hand despite the boy’s cry of outrage, jabbing it at him accusingly. “This psychopath has raided the crypts of two of the most important Houses in the South Pole. Someone’s bound to come forward with some information.”

“Then why hasn’t it happened yet?” Sokka retorted. “If we’d just gone through with my plan—”

“What, have every house searched, every vassal questioned, and the entire South Pole scoured on horseback? With what men were you planning on doing that?”

“I sent out a messenger hawk to my father—”

“Whom you haven’t heard back from and would _totally_ drop everything in the middle of a war to send much-needed soldiers to go look for some missing dead people.”

“They’re not just dead people!” Sokka’s lips peeled away from his teeth, not unlike Yue showing her fangs, but Zuko stood his ground as Sokka struggled to compose himself. “Could you…could you just give me some time? I’m a bit stressed, and I need to think about things by myself.”

“Just come to bed,” Zuko insisted as he slid off of the desk. “A good night’s sleep will do you some good.”

“No. Please leave me alone.”

“You can’t keep sulking about this; it’s going to eat you from the inside out. Yes, I understand that these people were important, but you have to admit…their bodies are irrelevant.”

“Zuko, you’re starting to make me _very_ upset and if you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to blow up.” Sokka’s voice was deathly calm, but he was shaking. His knuckles had gone white from where his hands had curled into fists. “Please go away.”

“Come on, you know I’m right! The spirits of your relatives are completely unattached to how fancy their burial is; they’re all out there traveling, watching over us, and enjoying the Spirit World—”

“Zuko. You’re really pushing it. Get out.”

“Even if no one ever finds the bodies, that doesn’t mean—”

“I SAID _GET OUT!_ ”

Sokka leapt to his feet and slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the soup sloshed out of its bowl and onto some important-looking documents, and both of them stood in silence as they watched the ink bleed across the paper like open wounds. The fireplace roared more vigorously, and all of the candles flickered and danced as if blown by an invisible wind. Sokka and Zuko’s gazes met, and Zuko’s breath hitched when he realized Sokka’s face was sparkling with tears.

After a long, heavy moment Zuko finally murmured, “Sorry.”

Sokka didn’t reply, his body deflating as he fell back into his chair and ran his hands down his face at the sight of the ruined, soupy papers before him. Perhaps Zuko should’ve taken that as his cue to leave, should’ve used that moment to high tail it out of there before he made matters worse, but for some reason his feet had rooted to the spot. There was something about the defeated slump of Sokka’s shoulders and his crumpled, exhausted expression that made it impossible for him to step away.

“Anything else?” Sokka rasped, not even looking at him.

“Do you want help? I…I could stay here, if you want.”

“Did Gran Gran threaten you? Is that why you’re doing this?”

Zuko did his best not to get worked up again, but couldn’t help the thin wisp of smoke that burst from his nostrils on his next exhale. “No, she didn’t. Why’d you think that?”

“It’s just…” Sokka shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d want to be cooped up in close quarters, doing work for a House you weren’t born into while sitting beside a dude you hate.”

“I don’t hate you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he was quick to cover for himself as Sokka’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I mean…you deserve an ass-beating, maybe some public humiliation or a kick in the head from your horse, but you’re not horrible.”

“That’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever given to me,” Sokka snorted. “You should turn it into a plaque I can hang on my wall. _Sokka Stark, twelfth of his name: He’s not horrible_.”

“You can make yourself _less_ horrible by letting me help you out with all this work.”

“How could I refuse?” Though Sokka’s tone was sarcastic, his eyes sparkled as Zuko pulled up another chair beside him. “Just…it’s a little disorganized. Tell me if you have any questions about anything.”

“I will.”

It was rough at first. They knocked elbows, fought over the single quill and inkwell, and struggled to decipher the contents of the documents that’d been drenched with soup. Zuko had almost no idea what any words or names meant, and their work was often interrupted by Sokka having to explain countless people and things—from certain southern terms to juicy gossip and old feuds between Houses that provided much-needed context. More than once Zuko considered giving up, but before long the two of them had learned how to work around each other and settled into a shaky tandem.

“This is a letter from your third cousin,” Zuko exclaimed, plopping the folded paper into the growing pile of _‘things addressed to Sokka specifically that seem too personal to answer myself.’_ “He wants to know if we can get together for dinner some time. Had some nice things to say about meeting me.”

“Really?” Sokka asked, perking up but not tearing his eyes away from a request for horses from House Beifong…a request that had obviously arrived before news of the wedding had reached them. “What’d he say?”

“They weren’t actually nice things.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. He’s…very eloquent; had the decency to come up with his own unique insults, at least.”

Aside from that, there weren’t any other matters of entertainment, to the point where Zuko almost wished he was getting more hate mail. It was forms after requests after letters after forms—a psychotic jumble of nonsense that started to irritate Zuko to no end even before an hour had passed. No wonder why Sokka had exploded on him beforehand; if Zuko had been the one working on this paperwork all day for the past week, he’d be a bit on edge, too! It almost made him thankful that he wasn’t heir to become firelord anymore…then again, his father probably had advisors to do all of this paperwork for him.

Sokka was the only reason any of it was bearable. He laughed at pleading letters from commoners who invited him to attend their children’s birthday parties, poked fun at spelling errors from various nobles, and made a plethora of jokes that ranged from obnoxiously stale to gut-wrenchingly hilarious. He never got frustrated with Zuko when he asked about certain names or terms he didn’t recognize, and was always willing to lend a helping hand or give advice.

Perhaps it was his fried brain or his exhausted boredom, but Zuko found himself growing hyper-aware of Sokka’s presence beside him. His face heated up whenever Sokka had to lean in to grab something, and his skin felt like it was charged with electricity when their shoulders brushed or their fingers grazed while they reached for the same thing. Sokka would pat Zuko’s back when he puzzled out a concept and nudge him with his elbow to point at lines of text he found particularly funny, and every time Zuko felt like his breath was being taken away.

Sokka’s face got awfully close to Zuko’s when he needed to grab a certain kind of stamp from the other side of the desk, opting to get it himself rather than ask Zuko to pass it to him. Zuko imagined, just for a moment, what would happen if he leaned in that extra inch and brought their mouths together. They hadn’t kissed since their wedding, and he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t fantasized about those full, warm lips against his own since then. It’s not like there’d be anything inherently wrong about imagining such a thing—they were husbands, after all—but the thought of Sokka knowing, of him somehow seeing into his mind and discovering Zuko had such whims, made his stomach tighten.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sokka prompted, and it was only then Zuko realized that _fuck!_ he’d been staring.

“I…um…was just lost in thought,” Zuko stammered, looking away while his face caught flame. “Sorry.”

“No. It’s okay.” There was a long stretch of awkward, stilted silence before Sokka said, “I was thinking, too.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

Zuko feared he’d choke on air, and he hoped that his tone sounded nonchalant when he asked, “What about us?”

“I…I’m not sure. It’s…stupid.” Sokka’s face was most definitely red, perhaps almost as red as Zuko’s, but he still managed to admit, “I often wonder how we’d be if we hadn’t been forced to marry each other. If we…maybe met while my father was on a diplomatic mission to Capital City? Stumbled across each other during a stuffy trade agreement and found we had a lot more in common than we’d thought? I wonder if we would’ve been friends.”

“Maybe. Future Lords do tend to form friendships before they each take control of their respective Houses. Your father and Lord Arryn were very close, I hear.”

“They were. We could’ve been pen pals, maybe…like how they’d been. I could send you bad drawings of my dog and you could talk about your lessons with Piandao Dondarrion.”

Zuko’s lips pulled into a smile. “That would’ve been nice.”

The conversation fell flat, the two of them sitting in silence, staring anywhere but at each other. Zuko couldn’t help but wonder if their friendship would’ve progressed to something more, if they would’ve fallen in love and gotten married the way people are supposed to do. Then again, if he were still crown prince of House Targaryen, his and Mai Lannister’s match would’ve been set in stone. He misses Mai. He should write to her.

They work in relative quiet for another hour or so before both of them are too exhausted to keep their eyes open and practically carry each other back to their room. The storm that’d blown in was just as strong as ever, and even though they’d only had to walk a handful of yards into the fortress, both of their teeth were chattering by the time they stepped into their room. Yue was waiting for them on the bed—without Sokka there the past week, Zuko had grudgingly allowed her up so he could have some company—and she barked a greeting to them.

Zuko was so tired he didn’t even bother taking his clothes into the bathroom, stripping down and throwing on his nightclothes before tumbling into bed with Sokka. The two of them curled up facing one another, their foreheads almost touching and their breaths ghosting over each other’s faces. 

“Sorry,” Sokka rasped as he pulled the furs up over the both of them.

“For what?”

“Yelling earlier and keeping you up this late.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s a sucky situation. You’re allowed to be upset about it,” Zuko muttered, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of Sokka’s closeness. After a while, he chuckled, “Besides, I have no place to judge, since I kept the both of us up for forever on our wedding night.”

“Don’t joke about that. I still feel horrible.”

“Hey, listen, we might as well make it something to laugh about. Life’s depressing enough; the _least_ we can do is poke fun at our comically horrible consummation.”

“You’re probably right.” Zuko could feel the rumble of Sokka’s laughter through the mattress. “I’m…also really sorry for withdrawing this week. I should’ve been there for you, especially after your first meeting with Gran Gran.”

“I was mad about that at first,” Zuko admitted, recalling how horrible he’d felt for a few days afterward. “Even though I’d never met her…I still felt like I needed her approval, you know? You’d spoken so highly of her—”

“Gran Gran’s a water tribeswoman through and through. First of the North, then of the South. She doesn’t like _anyone_ who isn’t from a waterbender House; it’s not just you.”

“I bet if I were from an earthbender House like House Baratheon or Beifong, your grandmother wouldn’t dislike me as much.”

“Perhaps, but you should see how horribly she treats ambassador Joo Dee; you’d think she hated Baratheons even more than Targaryens.” Sokka stretched with a yawn. “I wonder what it would’ve been like to live during the Age of Conquest. The old one with Sozin the Conqueror.”

“Why would you _ever_ want to live during that time? It was a hundred years ago and my family was…wreaking havoc.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sokka snorted. “I don’t know. It just seemed more hopeful back then, more magical. There were dragons, airbenders, the three-eyed raven was still around—”

“Three-eyed raven?”

“It’s the southern term for the Avatar. It’s gone out of style, but I’ve gotten into the habit of using it because the Weirwood prefers it.”

“Why would you call it that, though?” Zuko asked, propping himself up on one of his elbows. “What does mastering all four elements have to do with three-eyed ravens?”

“That’s a whole different story.”

“Tell me.”

Sokka grinned up at him. “Well, according to legend, the first Avatar was born many eons ago, back when the world was new and lion turtles roamed the earth’s great wilderness with entire cities on their backs.”

“My wet nurse always said that story was a farce. She told me and Azula that the world was hatched from one of the eggs of Agni the sun dragon spirit, and that the other eggs became the moon and the planets.”

“Yeah, and the blacksmith’s father thinks the sky is blue because we live in the eye of a blue-eyed giant named Macumber,” Sokka snorted, and Zuko couldn’t help but crack a smile. “But dragons and giants aside, the first Avatar was banished into the Spirit Wilds after he stole fire from his city’s lion turtle. After being chased around for weeks by angry spirits, scrounging for food and water, he found a raven stuck in a thorn bush.”

Zuko settled himself back down onto the bed, scooting the slightest bit closer to indulge in more of Sokka’s body heat. The soothing baritone of Sokka’s voice, the warmth of the fire, Yue snoring softly at their feet, and the raging of the storm outside were making him drowsy.

“The raven was ugly and misshapen, its wings shriveled and its face suffering from a horrible mutation that had given it three eyes, and the Avatar was shocked when it cried out to him: ‘Human from the city of the lion turtle, heed my plea! If you save me from this predicament, I shall grant you power beyond your wildest dreams!’” Zuko laughed at the raspy old voice that Sokka used for the raven. “But the Avatar had spent so long running from spirits that he’d grown to distrust them.”

“I don’t blame him. If there was a creepy three-eyed raven talking to me, I would’ve walked away.”

Sokka rolled his eyes and continued, “The Avatar told it: ‘I’ve been tricked by spirits before, I refused to be tricked by you! Swear on your life and on the old gods and the new that you will not bring harm to me if I set you free.’ The raven swore on the old gods and the new, and the Avatar used his firebending to burn away the thorns, allowing the raven to free itself and proclaim: ‘Human from the city of the lion turtle, greatest thanks for your aid! I shall now bestow upon you the ability to see into the future and the past, and to meld your mind with those whom you can overpower.’ The rest is history—you know, with Raava and the reincarnation cycle and such.”

“And here I was thinking that the Avatar’s only power was controlling all the elements,” Zuko said with a smirk. “Now you’re telling me they have clairvoyance and can use mind control? It sounds made up.”

“It does, but sometimes the most fantastical-sounding things are the only truth.”

“Alright, I’m going to make a legend of my own,” Zuko insisted. “Once upon a time, there were two husbands who didn’t like each other…”

“I’m enjoying this already.”

“…one of them was a very stubborn, very _annoying_ little lord from House Stark.” Sokka laughed as Zuko pressed a finger against his chest, feeling Sokka’s heartbeat against his fingertip “He could slice a man in half with one swing of his sword and transform into a wolf when the moon was full and the skies danced with green light.”

“Sounds like the most interesting and handsome man in the world. And what of his husband?”

“His husband was a prince from House Targaryen, a man from far away who didn’t really know much about the South and had a bad attitude. He…” Zuko rubbed his chin and spared a glance at the three dragon egg fossils. “…was the father of three gigantic dragons who could blot out the sun with their wingspan and turn forests to ash with their fiery breath.”

“Oh really? And what were these dragons’ names?”

“Hell if I know, Sokka!” Zuko scoffed, punching him lightly.

“Make something up.”

“Uh…” It was funny how once he was put on the spot, he’d all of a sudden forgotten every name to ever exist. “Their names were Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion—”

“Absolutely not! Those dragons already existed! You’re not going to be original in naming your own kids?”

“Fine. Their names were…uh…” He wracked his brain for something he could use. “Druk, Izumi, and Ursa.”

They were the name of his first pet Turtleduck, the name that Mai had always talked about liking if she were to have a kid, and his mom’s name. Being honest, they were good names for dragons.

“Cool. And what did this father of dragons and his wolfish husband do?”

“They conquered the entire world together without shedding a single drop of blood. All the Houses of the world—earthbender, waterbender, firebender—cowered in fear at the sight of their armies and their dragons, and surrendered the moment they caught sight of them coming up the horizon.”

“And after that?”

“They brought about an age of eternal peace, ruling their united kingdoms. Together, happily, for the rest of their lives.”

“For someone from a culture that you claim likes drama, that wasn’t very exciting,” Sokka huffed. “Where was the betrayal, the angst, the bloodshed?”

“I wanted to make it a happy story. The world’s too full of heartbreak and misfortune, too full of tales like _The Rains of Castamere_ and _Love Amongst the Dragons_ that revolve around tragedy after tragedy after tragedy; we already have enough of that in real life, why add more? Besides…I didn’t think either of us would want to kill anyone.”

Sokka’s smile faded into something sadder. “Have you ever killed someone?”

“No. I’ve trained but never seen real battle. My cousin, Lu Ten…he was a good soldier.”

“It’s a strange thing, first time you cut a man,” Sokka murmured, picking at the sheets. His eyes were far away. “You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood, and some bone to keep it all standing.”

“Who was your first?” Zuko asked, reaching out to trail his fingers across Sokka’s arm reassuringly. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s okay.” Sokka’s eyes fluttered closed, his face pinching up. “It was a Greyjoy soldier. About forty. He had a big beard and a cool breastplate…but that didn’t save him when I drove my sword through his neck while on horseback. He…he made the most horrible gurgling sound, and I wonder how that must’ve felt, to feel your life draining out of you as you choke on your own blood. When I die, I hope it’s quick. I hope I don’t see it coming or live long enough to know I’m dying.”

With a sinking heart, Zuko realized that Sokka was trembling, and he placed a comforting hand against his chest, feeling his heart fly fast and heavy against his palm. “Well, you’re young and strong and stupidly stubborn; the day you die is a long way off. You don’t have to worry about any of that now.”

“We’re at war.”

“No, our fathers are at war, and if— _when_ —they succeed, we’ll have peace for a very, very long time afterward…maybe even peace for the rest of our lives.”

“But at what cost, Zuko? How many people have to die for this so-called peace? How many cities will be burned? How many Houses will be uprooted from their ancestral homelands and butchered like sheep?”

“I don’t know,” Zuko murmured. “Hundreds, maybe. Thousands.”

“And to think my family and I would’ve been among them if we’d refused your father’s offer. All this? It’d be cinders by now. Our burned and blackened bones would already be buried in the snow.”

Zuko’s breath hitched at the thought, and his fingers curled into Sokka’s shirt protectively. “I probably would’ve had to watch it happen. My father made me and Azula accompany him to spectate our and the Lannister’s armies destroying House Tully.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. There…there was a lot of screaming and the whole stronghold collapsed into the sea. But I…I wasn’t close enough to witness any of it…you know, up close. But watching it kind of…it kind of felt like a public execution.”

“My father made me come to my first execution when I was eleven.” Sokka smiled to himself, as if it were a fond memory. “He wanted to teach me a lesson about becoming the Lord of Winterfell. Unlike with you northern Houses, we don’t have executioners here in the South; whoever passes the sentence must swing the sword. My father beheaded a serial rapist right before my eyes.”

Zuko’s lips parted slightly. “Does that mean—”

“Anyone convicted of a crime in Winterfell will have to die by my hand.”

“But you didn’t pass the sentence! Your judges—”

“Were instated by my father and speak as an extension of the Lord of Winterfell. I can’t attend every hearing and trial that goes on, so their sentences are my sentences.”

“I’d rather watch a thousand criminal executions than see watch another House get destroyed.”

He imagined walking through the wreckage of Winterfell, picking his way through the still-smoking husks of its buildings and skirting around countless charred carcasses. He imagined seeing Yue and Jet being dragged back to the ships to be skinned and stuffed, imagined seeing the crumpled bodies of horses slumped in blood-drenched snow drifts. He imagined Sokka, Hakoda, Katara, and Gran Gran’s stripped and mangled corpses strung up by their necks in the center of the square, left out to be food for crows and scavengers.

Would he have felt bad, then, if he’d never known them? Or would he have watched on with detached horror, just like how he’d watched the icy walls of House Tully’s stronghold come tumbling into the sea? Perhaps he even would’ve been relieved, knowing that he wouldn’t have to marry the Stark boy whose desecrated body was now swaying slightly in the sorrowful Southern wind?

Zuko had to extricate himself from the sheets before he worked himself up into a breathless panic, forcing his mind focus on blowing out all the candles for the night despite how he could’ve just put them out with firebending. Wax had melted everywhere, crusting down the legs of tables and streaming over the edges of desks like trickles of dried-up white sap, and although they probably should’ve asked one of the maids to scrape it away come morning, Zuko thought it made the room seem homier. He had to blow out a few candles on the mantle of the fireplace, too, and crouched down to run his hands over the dragon egg fossils as they basked in the warmth of the roaring flames.

The storm had dissipated sometime during Zuko and Sokka’s conversation, and the whole world deathly still as a few straggling snowflakes fluttered past the window. Zuko couldn’t help but linger at the glass, taking in the dark, gloomy view of the snow-drenched Winterfell that spread out before him. The lanterns of the guards patrolling the battlements, the blazing gold emanating from windows, and the spluttering street lamps were the only pinpricks of light that pierced through the darkness, and beyond that, the arctic wastes stretched on for miles and miles.

Zuko’s brow furrowed. “Sokka, are there any people out on the tundra at this hour?”

“No. Everyone’s required to return within Winterfell’s walls by sundown unless they’ve been given explicit permission not to do so…and everyone who’d be eligible for that permission is off to war.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Zuko murmured as he watched a lone pair of glowing blue wisps slowly float across the snow in the distance.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Zuko replied, though he couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that had come over him as he drew the curtains and shuffled back over to bed to curl up at Sokka’s side once more. “I’m just tired. My eyes are playing tricks on me.”

\----

They awoke to the sound of the horns and Katara bursting into the room.

“We’re under attack!” she cried, her sword in hand and her eyes wide and terrified. “It’s the Greyjoys; they’re marching on Winterfell! There are Targaryen banners with them!”

Zuko could barely open his mouth to say anything before Sokka was shoving him out of bed and throwing him to the ground, planting his foot on his chest as his face twisted up with grief.

“TRAITOR!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOO BIG CLIFFHANGER AND SOME FORESHADOWING!!! I wonder what will happen next ;) 
> 
> I hope you guys love this chapter as much as I loved writing it! Please leave a comment and kudos if you liked it! Comments truly play a huge role in the motivation that drives me to write!


	10. What is Dead May Never Die: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka must defend Winterfell against a possible attack, even if it means losing everything he knows and loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Graphic depictions of violence and gore, animal death, minor character death

**X.**

**WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE: PART I**

Sokka wasn’t sure why he felt so betrayed, why his stomach was festering with grief at the sight of Zuko wide-eyed and struggling beneath the weight of Sokka’s foot on his chest. He’d known that the Targaryens were liars, had known that a Targaryen would do whatever it took to advance their House, even if it meant taking back promises and deceiving whoever was foolish enough to offer their trust. 

And yet despite how Sokka had hated Zuko, he’d come to an unsteady understanding with him. It was just like how Iroh and his father had promised, and he’d been a fool to let his guard down and indulge himself in such nonsensical whims.

“How could you?” Sokka whispered, struggling to blink back tears as his hands balled into fists. He meant to sound angry, to call upon the strength of Nymeria the Wolf Spirit and unleash an unholy tide of fury upon his husband, but his voice kept cracking and his face burned with shame. “We did everything your family asked. _Everything_. And…and you repay us by sending an army to our doorstep while all our soldiers are off fighting your war?”

“Please, Sokka, I didn’t know, I swear—” Zuko gasped and struggled weakly as Sokka pressed all of his weight down onto Zuko’s chest. “You have to believe me! I had no idea this would happen!”

“I…I want to believe you.” Sokka was trembling and the whole world had gone blurry from the water welling up behind his eyes. “I want to believe you so badly it hurts.”

“What should we do?” Katara asked. Though she held her head high, her lips quivered with fear. “A messenger came to the gates and claims they wish to have a peaceful talk with you.”

“Is it just the Greyjoys carrying Targaryen banners?”

“No. There are Targaryen soldiers and Greyjoy soldiers gathered in solidarity. Commander Zhao Clegane leads them. The shaman has tried to send messenger hawks to House Umber, Glover, and Manderly for help, but they’ve all been shot down.”

Sokka’s breath hitched and Zuko’s eyes slid closed, his throat clicking as he swallowed. He looked pitiful like this, still in his rumpled nightclothes, his hair fanned out around him on the floor and his breath coming out short and quick. He didn’t look like a traitor.

“I didn’t know,” Zuko repeated, softly. He’d ceased his struggling and had rested his hand on Sokka’s foot, still clutching the hem of his sleeping trunks. “I…I didn’t…”

“How could you not know that your family was planning to betray us from the beginning?” Katara demanded. She had to grab a hold of the scruff on Jet’s neck to keep him from lunging. “Even if I believed you, I’d take you for a fool.”

“Please let me talk to them. Maybe I can convince them to leave.”

“If you leave these gates today, it’s either going to be with your army as Winterfell burns or in chains to be thrown into the sea with the Greyjoys,” Katara growled, planting her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Gran Gran and the shaman told me to take him to the dungeons.”

“Wait, no—!”

“Bring Yue and Jet with you.” Sokka removed his foot from Zuko’s chest and turned away as the firebender scrambled to his feet. “If you’re truly innocent like you say you are, you’ll go with my sister without a fight.”

“FUCK NO!” Zuko roared, flames bursting from his mouth and making Sokka flinch back. “Why the hell are you both are so quick to turn on me?! Where is there _any_ proof that I was conspiring against you?! You seem to have forgotten that I now bear the name Stark, too—I swore a fucking vow!”

“Your family has a habit of breaking vows. Your father broke your grandfather’s vow to the Avatar. Your great-grandfather Sozin the Conqueror promised the airbenders that he wouldn’t bring them harm as long as they avoided entanglement during the war. And now you, Zuko, have betrayed the loyalty you swore to House Stark.”

“You’re breaking a vow too, you know, by dishonoring me in this way.” Zuko’s eyes simmered with a rage that Sokka hadn’t seen since before the wedding, when their dislike for one another had been at its zenith. It was almost as if that rage had never left, had bidden its time until now, and the realization chased away any guilt that Sokka could’ve felt in that moment. “I am many things, Sokka Stark, but I’m not an oath breaker.”

“If that’s true, you’ll go with my sister and wait in the dungeons for this to blow over.”

“But I can fight!”

“I know you can fight.” They’d never gotten around to that sparring match they’d been talking about, Sokka realized, and that only made him feel as though someone was snipping away at the tendons in his chest one by one. “I’m just worried about which side you’ll choose.”

Zuko’s lips curled, his anguished expression making his scar contort, and Sokka was suddenly reminded of the dream he’d had all those weeks ago, about Zuko transforming into a dragon and burning all of Winterfell to the ground.

“You’re outnumbered. You won’t win.”

“I know.” A surge of anxiety crawled up Sokka’s throat, the same one he’d felt before he’d fought the Greyjoys when he was younger. It would fade to numbness, he knew, once the battle had truly begun. Only this time, he didn’t have an army at his back and was facing an impossible enemy. “I…I know.”

“So you’ve always hated me?” Zuko spat, though his voice wavered. “You’ve always thought I’d betray you eventually? If you’d just let me _talk_ to them, maybe I can—”

“If you think this is going to have a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.” Sokka turned to face the window, glad that it overlooked the opposite end of Winterfell and didn’t have a view of the vast armies he was undoubtedly going to face. “Even if you talk with them, I’ll be dead by morning. Just like how you wanted.”

“I didn’t—” But then Katara was there, drawing her sword and warding him back toward the door. “ _Please_ , I—”

“If you knew about this, Zuko, I hope you die in agony.” Sokka didn’t look away from the window. “If not…then I hope…I hope I was a good enough husband for you in what little time we had. Kiss my severed head goodbye for me if you stumble across it on a pike. Weep at my funeral if you’re feeling particularly generous.”

“Sokka, wait—!”

Katara shoved him out the door with Yue and Jet snarling at her heels, and the last glimpses Sokka got were of Zuko’s wide eyes and the terrified line of his mouth. The door slammed shut behind them with a note of finality, like a stone slab sliding over a casket. It was only when their footsteps had faded down the hall that Sokka finally allowed his knees to buckle, and he buried his face in his hands and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

Should he have escaped from Winterfell and traveled the world when he’d still had the chance? Should he have tried harder to convince his father to ally with the Baratheons at Ba Sing Se instead?

_None of it would’ve mattered,_ a resigned voice in his head murmured. _This was always going to be your fate; free will is just as much of an illusion as the memories of the Weirwood grove—all the paths you possibly could’ve taken would lead to the same destination._

If he’d abandoned his life of lordship to start anew in the North? His family would be dead.

If he’d refused the proposal? His family would be dead.

If they’d allied with the Baratheons and Beifongs and all of their earthbender vassals instead? His family would be dead.

And now Sokka had seemingly done everything right, had done _exactly_ what his father told of him and complied to each and every one of the Targaryens’ demands, and his family was going to die anyway.

He wasn’t the main character of this story, wasn’t the hero in shining armor; he was Hakoda Stark’s son, a pawn who was always meant to be sacrificed.

In time, maybe there’d be songs sung about him in the secluded corners of the Targaryen empire, tales of a Stark boy forced to marry an enemy to save his family but slaughtered all the same. Perhaps it would have a moral about sticking to what you believe or about how ‘trying your best’ doesn’t always cut it, but Sokka didn’t want to be a moral. He didn’t want to be a tragic hero like in _The Rains of Castamere_. Living to an old age and dying in anonymity was better than being butchered as a boy and living on instead as a legend, warped by time and by mistranslations and eventually fading, too.

Sokka’s expression hardened, and he looked to the meteorite sword mounted on the mantle, glinting in the firelight like the shell of a scarab. If he was going down, he was going to bring the Targaryens and Greyjoys down with him.

Grey Wind was waiting for him once he’d gotten dressed, his mane braided with feathers and his skin marked up with war paint by the stable hands; circles around his eyes and nose for heightened senses, lightning racing up his front legs for speed, and red handprints on his shoulders and flanks for vengeance. It was the first time Sokka had donned his armor since before the wedding, and the cold embellished plate hugged his body like the cradle of the hands of death. 

“Do not be afraid, my Lord,” the shaman murmured as Sokka hauled himself into the saddle and took a hold of the reigns. “Perhaps there’s a chance that they arrive in good faith.”

“Greyjoy banners never mean good faith,” Sokka growled, steering Grey Wind around toward the entrance. A few civilians had volunteered to man the crossbows, and it chilled him to the core to see a line of bowmen poised to strike on the battlements. “Is it just us?”

“No,” Gran Gran replied, shuffling over. Her handmaidens tried to help her through the snow, but she swatted them away as if they were pesky flies. “You’re taking two of Katara’s waterbending trainees and the soldiers who’d escorted me from the Last Hearth.”

The soldiers trotted over on their own steeds, brandishing flagpoles with Stark banners on them. The dire wolf sigil looked as though it was watching him, knowing fully well that whatever happened during this meeting would change the course of history.

“Alright.” Sokka was so, so afraid, but he had to act strong for the terrified people who’d clustered in the courtyard. All of them would probably die today, but he had to pretend like they still had a fighting chance. “If they break their oath of peace during this meeting—as they’ve broken many oaths to this House—and I and the shaman are killed, I decree that Katara shall assume the position of Lady of Winterfell and evacuate all of you out of the back entrance.”

“But my Lord!” one of the civilians cried. She had an infant swaddled in her arms and tears glistening on her cheeks. “What of your husband?”

Sokka’s expression darkened, and he bowed his head. “I am unsure of whether my husband had a hand in this, but until further notice, he is being detained.”

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd, people shaking their head and shrugging as though they’d expected such a thing to happen, and Sokka urged Grey Wind forward so he wouldn’t have to bear to look any longer. The waterbender trainees opened the door for them, the metal hinges squealing like an angry mare, and about two hundred yards away, an army was revealed to be waiting for them.

The citizens of Winterfell panicked at the sight, and Sokka screwed his eyes shut as they scattered back to their homes to pack their things; he had a feeling they’d start to evacuate even if Sokka and his escort weren’t killed, and hoped they’d be able to survive the trek across the tundra to whichever House they sought refuge in; although House Umber’s stronghold at the Last Hearth was the closest, it was dangerously cold. They’d have a better chance heading to House Manderly in White Harbor. 

Katara jogged over to him with Jet and Yue at her side, and put a hand on his leg. “Please come back.”

“I’ll try.” Sokka leaned down to give her a kiss on the top of her head, taking in the smell of the jasmine shampoo she’d been using ever since the northerners had paid a visit. “Hey, I just want you to know…if things start getting bad, you need to run. Take Yue and Jet through the secret passage in the crypt and hide in the Weirwood grove—it’ll protect you until you can make a break for House Manderly.”

“But—”

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe. You…you don’t have to be the hero here, okay?”

“You’re going to die, aren’t you?” Katara whispered. “In this battle?”

Sokka smiled softly. “I’ll fight my hardest and hope that’s enough.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to continue this journey without me.” Sokka put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be with you, no matter what happens. It’s my job to protect Winterfell, but it’s your job to keep House Stark alive.”

Before she could respond or realize that Sokka was merely a few moments away from breaking down, Sokka spurred Grey Wind on through the gates, with the shaman, the waterbender trainees, and the soldiers thundering at his heels. Though Sokka hadn’t intended on bringing her, Yue sprung from Katara’s side and raced after them, keeping surprisingly good pace with the horses through the snow.

The wind was biting out here in the exposed wastelands, and Sokka turned his head to watch dark clouds gathering in the distance. There’d be a storm. A terrible, terrible storm. Those evacuating would probably get caught up in it…and would die, especially this close to winter. The sweet, drowsy mercy of the snow was better than the bite of the sword, though, and he could only hope that at least a few might be able to make it.

“Sokka Stark, pleasure to see you after all this time!” A voice called as they approached.

The words sent shivers down Sokka’s spine, and his fingers tightened on the hilt of the space sword. Now that he was up close, he could assume that the army had to be at least one hundred strong, maybe one hundred fifty—half of them benders—and dread pooled in Sokka’s stomach like sludge at low tide; although he had his escort, he’d never felt more vulnerable in his life. 

“Commander Zhao,” Sokka greeted as he pulled Grey Wind to a stop. The horse had begun to tremble with anticipation beneath him, his breath coming out in sharp billows of steam. He probably recognized the Greyjoy banners. “I thought you’d joined my father and father-in-law on the march.”

“Originally yes. But oddly enough, halfway across the Shivering Sea we received word from you that someone had raided your crypt and the crypts of House Umber and Manderly. I and a handful of the Greyjoy fleet were commanded to return to check up on you and Prince Zuko.”

Sokka’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead in shock. He’d _completely_ forgotten about the cry for help he’d sent to his father; the pleasant evening with Zuko yesterday had made it completely lapse his mind, even though for many days beforehand it’d been all he’d ever thought about.

Hoping he sounded diplomatic and lordly enough, Sokka demanded, “Why have you brought so many men? And why have you been shooting down our messenger hawks?”

Zhao’s expression darkened, his Komodo rhino shifting around in the snow. “We wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything foolish and assuming the worst; young Lords do tend to be very quick to the trigger, and once we read the letters you were sending, we found that was exactly the case. House Targaryen and its vassals don’t appreciate false claims of dishonor and oath breaking.”

Sokka ducked his head shamefully, his face going bright vermillion. Perhaps he’d acted too rashly. But what was he _supposed to_ think when all signs pointed to a possible siege or attack? Why else would so many soldiers of long-time enemies be at the doorstep when Winterfell was at its weakest?

As if reading Sokka’s mind, Zhao continued, “As for why I’ve brought so many men, your father-in-law instructed me to serve as your advisor during this time of crisis, and has insisted on posting more men to guard Winterfell. You’re severely understaffed, no? If you can hardly stop a robber from stealing the bodies of your ancestors, how can you defend yourself if House Baratheon or its allies decided to launch an attack?”

Alarm bells went off in Sokka’s head; though it sounded like nothing more than a harmless gift of aid, never in the history of House Stark had northerners been stationed to guard the stronghold or to serve on the council. This meeting wasn’t quite the bloodbath Sokka had been expecting, it still felt terribly wrong.

“Lord Stark is in no need of an advisor,” the shaman stated, his mouth pursed into a taught line. The feathers he’d braided into his hair fluttered wildly in the wind, as if they were trying to take off and fly to safety. “I’ve been fulfilling this duty with little difficulty.”

“I mean no disrespect,” Zhao apologized, but his voice was steely. “However, I am under orders by Firelord Targaryen to assist Lord Stark in any way I can. I’m sure my many years of combat and council experience will be of good use to him.”

“I’m very thankful for this offer, Lord Clegane, and have no doubt that we could arrange for both you and the shaman to advise me,” Sokka agreed, and the shaman threw him an impressed glance; it was the first diplomatic compromise Sokka had ever made as the Lord of Winterfell. “There’s only one issue.”

It began to snow. The clouds were rolling in faster, and a wall of flurrying white was creeping toward them slowly but surely. Grey Wind pawed at the ground, whickering, and one of the horses from the opposing army whickered back nervously.

“And what might that be?” Zhao asked as he tilted his chin up, and Sokka’s eyes darted to the three-headed dragon banners that floated behind him, coupled with the three yellow hounds of House Clegane.

“Under no circumstances will any Greyjoy step across the threshold of Winterfell.”

“That’s quite rude of you. They accompanied us all this way—”

“Just because House Targaryen seems to have forgotten the atrocities the Greyjoys have wreaked upon my House doesn’t mean that I have.”

“Atrocities _we_ have wreaked?!” a woman who seemed unable to contain her rage any longer roared. She sat astride a dappled mare and was decked in chainmail and leather armor emblazoned with the Greyjoy kraken. “Your House is the one who chased us off of the mainland and left us stranded without any ground to till, forcing us back to piracy!”

“That mainland acreage was not yours to take in the first place,” Sokka replied calmly, his eyes glittering. “A Lord must come to the aid of his vassals. And have you not forgotten that it was a Greyjoy who killed my mother, Lady Kya?”

“And it was a Stark who plundered our stronghold and killed _my_ mother and two older brothers.” So it was Lord Greyjoy’s daughter he was talking to, then. The one whom his father had left alive. “We had to pay the iron price for your mother, I do admit; you deserved your revenge. But you took more dues than you were owed; your mother’s life was worth one life in return, and your father instead took three. Now I must avenge valiant souls of my elder brothers.”

“What is dead may never die,” one of the soldiers in the back murmured, and a chorus of people echoed the statement. Though they weren’t the official words of House Greyjoy— _We do not sow_ —it was a common enough phrase that it had essentially become a second motto.

Sokka’s hand tightened on his reigns, and Yue seemed to sense the hostility permeating the air, for she stepped forward with a growl, unwavering even as she faced off with the horses and Komodo rhinos who towered so much higher than she did. Grey Wind shifted around from foot to foot, his ears angling back to Sokka as he eagerly awaited a cue.

“Our greatest apologies for such an injustice,” the shaman stated, desperate to ease the tension. “However, I feel as though this is a matter best taken up with Lord Hakoda once you return to the fleet.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” the Greyjoy woman hissed, and a ripple of chuckles reverberated through the assembled soldiers. Sokka stared out into the mass of bodies, and the hollow eyes of firebender helmets stared back. “You’re not the only one who owes House Greyjoy a debt.”

She looked to Commander Zhao—who, upon closer inspection, Sokka realized was wearing the armor of an Admiral now—and his heart launched straight up into his throat as Zhao’s grin widened.

“You see, Sokka, I know I told you that we came here to aid you and your vassals with this whole grave robbery situation, but unfortunately there _is_ another reason. Do you remember how House Targaryen had said they’d aid the Greyjoys in taking Winterfell if you refused our offer?”

“I recall.” Sokka’s words barely escaped his lips; his throat had become unbearably constricted. _I knew it. I fucking knew it._

“As it turns out, we’d already promised the Greyjoys control of Winterfell…whether or not the wedding happened.”

Sokka exchanged a panicked glance with the shaman, and it took everything within his power to make sure his voice didn’t crack when he spat, “You would dare to go back on your word?!”

“You’re young Sokka, and young people tend to be terribly naïve, but you must know that sometimes you can do everything right and still lose.”

“But you can’t just—!”

“We can. Life is never fair, little Lord. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.” Zhao brushed off some snow that had accumulated on his pauldrons. “You have until sundown to surrender. If you do, you’ll be treated as honored guests until the war is over, and no harm will come to you or any of your people. However, if you refuse, every single person within Winterfell will be slaughtered and your sacred Weirwood grove razed. We’ll let your sister remain barely alive, though, to keep Lord Stark in line lest he hear word of this before the war is over.”

“We have Zuko!” Sokka cried, though his words held an edge of desperation. There was no Avatar to save them now, no hero to swoop from the sky to stop this all from happening. “If you march on Winterfell I…I’ll kill him and send his head to his father!”

He didn’t think he could find the courage—or perhaps the cruelty—to do such a thing, but that was a bridge he’d have to cross when he came to it. Zuko was his only leverage, the only bargaining chip that Sokka could use to get Winterfell and his House out of this complete and utter shitshow. He remembered Zuko whispering to him last night, telling him of how he wouldn’t have to worry about dying because the war was their fathers’ war alone; now the both of them were staring death in the face much faster than they’d thought, and Sokka had no idea what he could possibly do to escape what seemed inevitable.

“Sokka, you do understand that if Firelord Ozai had wanted his son alive, he’d never have allowed him to marry a Stark,” Zhao jeered, and Sokka feared he would tumble out of the saddle as the words raced up his spine like a jolt of electricity. 

“The only good wolf is a dead one!” the Greyjoy woman bellowed, and her comrades cheered along with her. “Go boy, go cower behind your walls! I hope you make the right decision, because it’s the only thing you’ll be remembered for.”

Sokka couldn’t even think of anything to say, and instead yanked Grey Wind around and galloped all the way back to Winterfell with the shaman, Yue, and their escort hot on his heels.

He desperately tried to wipe his tears away, but they just kept coming.

\---

“They can’t do this!” Katara cried once Sokka had finished explaining what had happened. They, the shaman, and Gran Gran had holed up in the war room as to not cause mass panic in the streets. “Are you sure they didn’t want Zuko—”

“I threatened to kill Zuko,” Sokka sneered, burying his face in his hands miserably and slumping further into his chair. “I threatened to cut off his head and have it delivered to his father, and they didn’t care…not that I could ever bring myself to do that. How’s he faring?”

“Complaining often and loudly, but not lashing out. He seems to know that his family is going to rescue him.”

“I’m going to have to apologize. He…he definitely hadn’t known about any of this; I’m not sure why, but according to Zhao he’s better off to his father dead.”

“Don’t believe everything Zhao Clegane, of all people, says,” the shaman. “Zuko is Firelord Ozai’s only son—who just so happens to be the firstborn as well! I have no doubt that the family agreed for Zuko to marry you so they wouldn’t have to worry about accidental heirs after the Greyjoy invasion. This is going all according to script for him.”

What little hope that Sokka had for Zuko’s loyalty was immediately crushed, and he bowed his head as the anguish and betrayal from before flooded back into him like high tide.

“There’s no way we can defend Winterfell against that many skilled benders,” Gran Gran sighed, never taking her eyes off of the Stark banners that adorned the walls. “We’d be dead in minutes. The only other option is to surrender.”

“But we can’t let them take Winterfell!” Katara cried. “The Starks have held this stronghold for four hundred years—”

“And no Stark will ever hold it again if they’re all dead,” Gran Gran bowed her head. “We must let them in.”

“They’re not going to uphold their promise make sure we’re unharmed, you know,” Sokka said. “I saw it in that Greyjoy woman’s eyes; she wants us dead. Zhao said they’d keep Katara alive to make sure our father doesn’t turn on Ozai if he hears of this, but he only said ‘alive’ and not ‘safe.’ I’d rather go down fighting.”

“Then perhaps you should run,” Gran Gran said. “You two take that Targaryen boy and get out of here; there’s a chance you’ll be able to catch up to the march and tell your father what has happened. Maybe the firelord will be more willing to barter his son if it’s in person.”

“There’s no way we’d make it to the harbor in time,” Katara insisted. “We have no horses, no weapons, no escort—"

“Not if I distract them. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, after all.”

“You can’t mean that, Gran Gran.”

“I do. I’m an old sack of bones, my wolf pups; I can’t continue the Stark line like you two can. I’ll tell them that you’ve hidden in the Weirwood grove; they’ll be so busy brawling with that cumbersome spirit forest that it’ll buy you enough time to catch a ship to the North.”

“Katara should go,” Sokka murmured, withering under everyone’s combined gazes. “There are civilians here—men, women, and children whom I swore to protect. I can’t abandon them all, and I can’t leave the Weirwood grove to burn, either. Besides, Katara’s the one who’s in charge of heirs anyway.”

Sokka cracked a smile, though it was difficult to meet his sister’s tearful eyes.

“You seem to have forgotten that I have responsibilities as captain of the guard,” Katara stated stubbornly. “My trainees would flounder without me. We’re in this together. We’ll find a way. And…and if we don’t…” She chewed on her lip to choke back a sob before jutting out her chin with determination. “We’ll be just like Arrona and Kodir, the ones who fought the dragons during the Great Conquest.”

As if on cue, all of them turned to watch the sun slowly dip toward the horizon, painting the sky with red and gold like the colors that Zuko’s House so famously adored.

“Gran Gran, go to your quarters and lock the doors, maybe even the crypts if you’re able,” Sokka murmured. “Stay there for as long as you can and maybe you can escape—"

“I’m not hiding away in my room like some kind of coward,” Gran Gran growled. “I’m staying right here. Maybe I can get a messenger hawk through without it getting shot down.”

She rose to her feet, turning to her terrified grandchildren with a gleam in her eyes. “Winter has come for us, my wolf pups. I can only pray that we’ll be ready.”

\---

An hour or so after he’d been thrown into the dungeons, the bells rang and the horn sounded—calling all soldiers to battle. Zuko had been skeptical at first of Sokka’s insistence that the army was here to launch an attack, but now he knew his husband had been right. Zuko’s family had betrayed the Starks.

The waterbender trainees who’d been guarding him fled like startled birds, thundering up the stairs and leaving him alone in a frigid cell of ice and stone. He supposed he should’ve automatically tried to escape, should’ve firebent his way out of the bars, run to his and Sokka’s room to grab any belongings, snatched Roan Summer from the stables, and ridden off to catch the first ship to Ember Island to wait out the war. But then an explosion rocked Winterfell to its very core, muffled but still deafening from where Zuko sat, he found himself frozen in place.

Ice screeched and splintered while fire roared, and his breath caught in his throat when a horrible shriek rose up above the commotion—perhaps a horse, perhaps a person. Zuko couldn’t tell. He clambered to his feet and peered through the bars, his breath steaming in the air and the body-warming techniques his uncle had taught him completely forgotten. His nightclothes were a poor shield against the cold, and he clutched his shoulders with a shiver as a chill settled into his bones like ice on a pond.

“Hello?” he called hesitantly. His voice echoed in the empty dungeons; either Winterfell was incredibly crime-free or all the prisoners who’d been here before him had been executed. He paled at the thought and touched one of the iron bars, but it was so cold it burned and he recoiled with a hiss. “Anyone?”

A clash of swords answered him.

He wondered if this was how the civilians felt, cowering in fear in their homes and praying that the soldiers wouldn’t barge in. Did Zuko _want_ to be found? Would Commander Zhao bring him back to his father, a bargaining chip to be pawned off to the next Lord he wanted to control? The thought of that made Zuko’s lips curl.

No, he didn’t want to be found. Both sides were against Zuko—Targaryens, Starks, it didn’t matter. Zuko was on his own now, a boy without a banner to hold himself to.

Perhaps if the free folk had still been alive, the airbenders who’d sworn allegiance to no House and bowed to no Lord, Zuko could’ve joined them. He remembered something about them being monks of some kind, spending their lives meditating and attuning themselves to nature. It didn’t sound half bad, but Zuko remembered it was because of his ancestors that there were no more free folk left; the world was carved up into pieces like mongrels fighting over a cake, and those who refused to bow sentenced themselves to die.

Just like what the Starks were doing now.

\---

Fire and blood. Blood and fire. Why did fighting the Targaryens have to hurt so fucking much?

The world passed by him in a blur as he pushed Grey Wind to ride faster, and the stallion reared up to trample a Greyjoy soldier who’d been in the way, the woman’s ribs splintering beneath his hooves like the crackle of logs on a fireplace. From across the courtyard, Sokka watched Yue tackle a firebender to the ground, latching a hold of his neck and shaking her head around viciously until his trachea was ripped from his body in a shower of blood and bone.

Sokka had two arrows in his back that’d pierced through his armor and were now burrowed shallowly into his flesh like a pair of maggots, nipping at him whenever he moved and making his vision spin. His leg was burned, too, but otherwise here was nothing to worry about as of yet…unless, of course, the arrows had been poisoned and he was going to fall from his horse at any moment.

Katara was fighting like a demon, mowing down any soldier in her path with shards of ice that pierced sharper than any spear ever could. She raised her hands and the ground swallowed up two firebenders, who shrieked as they tumbled down into the ice and were sealed back up again to suffocate, and whirled around just in time to launch an icicle right through the eye socket of an axe-wielding Greyjoy that’d snuck up behind her.

The display distracted Sokka just enough for a Targaryen swordsman to lunge for Grey Wind, hacking away at the horse’s legs in an attempt to cripple him, but only managed to graze the skin of the horse’s flank before Sokka leaned back to slice his head from his shoulders with a single swipe.

_Huh. This space sword’s a lot sharper than I thought,_ Sokka mused. _If I live, I’m getting another one of these._

The likelihood of that was growing slimmer by the minute as more Greyjoys and Targaryens swarmed through the gaping hole in Winterfell’s walls, leftover from when the enemy waterbenders had ripped the iron gates from their hinges despite Katara and her trainees’ efforts. Zhao hadn’t even asked if Sokka was going to surrender or not, had just ordered his troops to attack, and it was this act that truly made Sokka realize that he was never meant to survive.

Wood splintered with a sound like exploding dynamite, and Sokka watched on in horror as soldiers swarmed into the war room, and as a chorus of cheers resounded throughout the stronghold, Sokka knew that his grandmother was dead.

His face twisted, and as another Greyjoy soldier ran up to him, sword raised and face contorted in a strangled battle cry, Sokka found the strength to lean out of the saddle and stab him right through the space where his breastplate ended and his trousers began.

A gut strike was a bloody end, the kind where you would live to watch all the life drain out of you as your organs slid to the floor, and Sokka could only pray that such a fate wouldn’t befall him.

The Starks were always more built for love than war.

\---

Zuko’s expression hardened; he was going to get out of here. He was going to rush to his room, throw on whatever clothes he could find, grab any keepsakes, and ride Roan Summer so fast to the harbor there’d be fire in his wake.

His uncle would understand why he had to leave the Starks to die, wouldn’t he? He’d understand that he had no other choice, that helping would’ve certainly meant his own demise? But despite Zuko’s hopeful thinking, he could already see the furrowed brow and downturned mouth of a disappointed Uncle Iroh, could already hear the soft note in his voice that always made Zuko feel like he had an arrow through his heart.

He steeled himself. There was no other way. He wasn’t going to die for a House that’d been so quick to call him a traitor, a House he’d been sold off to as a pretty token while his father assembled his army.

Without thinking, he wrapped his hands around the thin bars and called upon his inner fire, screwing his eyes shut as they heated up beneath his palms. Winterfell hadn’t kept firebender prisoners in decades, and though it took a bit of time, the bars eventually turned gooey enough to bend and squeeze through the space made between. Zuko only hesitated for a few moments before he raced up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him and threw open the heavy wooden door that awaited at the top, which had been left unlocked.

Zuko had to duck the moment he stepped outside as a flaming arrow whizzed over his head and embedded itself into the door, popping and sputtering. The chaos was so much louder now that he wasn’t estranged from it by ice and stone walls, and Zuko clapped his hands over his ears as people screamed, swords clashed, fire roared, and shards of ice rocketed through the air as if fired from crossbows.

A horse wearing Greyjoy regalia had been felled right outside the door, its eyes empty and its chest cavity looking as though it’d been ripped open by some kind of animal, its organs strewn across the grown and staining the snow vermillion. The sight of Turtleduck sprawled out in the Weirwood grove flashed before Zuko’s eyes, and he staggered back in horror before taking off as fast as he could toward the fortress, hoping his room hadn’t already been ransacked.

He had to leap over the dead and dying, dodge projectiles, and even lunge out of the way of a Komodo rhino that’d slipped on ice and had hurtled toward him with twelve arrows bristling from its hide like a boar-q-pine. All around him the Stark forces were being overwhelmed ten-to-one, and Zuko realized with mounting horror that his father’s forces weren’t just going after the soldiers, but the civilians, too. He passed the burned and blackened form of what must’ve once been a child, and watched as the old woman from the general store was tackled to the ground while she ran to safety and stabbed until her chest was a mangled soup of flesh and blood.

_She’d done the flowers on my wedding day_ , Zuko thought distantly as he pushed himself to run faster.

\---

Grey Wind fell halfway through the battle, a spear in his neck and his flank singed by fire.

The stallion let out a horrible, strangled wail of agony before flipping over and nearly crushing Sokka beneath his weight, and Sokka scrambled back in horror as the horse he’d raised and trained by hand flailed desperately for a few moments before going still in the snow. His war paint had grown runny with blood, mingling with the red and seeping across his skin like rivers of broken promises of glory. Sokka was too numb to even whimper.

_You did so good, bud. Rest for a while and wait for me in the Night Lands; I’ll be with you soon._

He managed to drag himself to his feet just in time to raise his shield up to block a blast of fire from a Targaryen soldier as tears turned to frost on his cheeks.

\---

Zuko changed as quickly as he could, donning his robe and pauldrons and shivering as the red fabric slid over his skin. No one had found their chambers as of yet, too busy fighting to think of looting, and Zuko grabbed the largest satchel he could find and began loading it with things he’d take on his journey—the dragon eggs, the Blue Spirit mask that Hakoda had given him, a bit of food, some coins, his dao swords.

He lingered on his copy of _Love Amongst the Dragons_ , his eyes sliding to _The Rains of Castamere_ open beside it. It was marked with a bookmark as if Sokka intended on returning to it at any moment, and Zuko’s heart stabbed with such horrible pain that he nearly doubled over, though that was nothing compared to when he turned to his bedside table and saw his engagement necklace settled next to the lantern.

_It could be worth something,_ a voice in his head reminded him. _Sokka said something about that stone being found nowhere except the Poles._

But Zuko took it in hand and stuffed it into his pocket for other reasons; it would be a reminder of his failure, a reminder that today he’d had the chance to take the path of justice, to die for the House he’d been married into, but instead had chosen cowardice. Sokka was a piece of shit, but he and Katara were honorable in a way that Zuko was not; they could’ve fled, could’ve abandoned Winterfell to save their own skins, but they’d chosen to go down fighting to protect their people.

As Zuko took one last look at his room— _their_ room—he wondered if he’d ever grow to be as brave as them, or if he’d be a coward the rest of his life.

_I wish I could go back to last night,_ he thought as he hurried down the somber hallways of the stronghold, his footsteps ringing against the stones. The wolf statues guarding every threshold and the three-eyed ravens woven into every tapestry seemed to glare at him as he passed. _I wish I could spend forever reliving it over and over again, doing paperwork with Sokka and telling stories of three-eyed ravens and what we’d be like if we were heroes._

Zuko was so lost in reveries that he nearly ran headfirst into a soldier who was turning a corner at the same time that he was, and he leapt back with a startled cry and drew his dao swords, brandishing them out in front of him.

“Prince Zuko?” the soldier skidded to a stop and removed his helmet, which was splattered with blood. “It’s Jee of House Valeryon! It’s fantastic to see that you’re all right!”

“Jee?” Zuko’s voice was trembling. “How—”

“I was sent by Commander Zhao to find you. Since you weren’t on the battlefield fighting with your barbarian husband, we assumed you’d resisted and had been thrown into the dungeons, but when I got there you’d already escaped!” Jee clapped him on the shoulder, his grin stained red, and Zuko couldn’t help the fear that festered in his gut. Was that Sokka’s blood on his helmet and in his mouth? Or perhaps Katara’s? “This was the only other place I could think to check.”

“What’s going on?!” Zuko cried. “Shouldn’t all of you be on the march?!”

“Aw, Prince Zuko, you didn’t think your father would just leave you for the wolves, did you?” Jee guffawed, and Zuko’s mouth parted in shocked dismay, though no sound came out. “Sorry we had to keep you in the dark about this, but your father thought it’d be for the best.”

“But I swore a vow! _All_ of us swore a vow before the old gods and the new! This is such a dishonorable path for my House—”

“Hey, listen, your House _also_ promised the Greyjoys that we’d help them take Winterfell if they joined our cause. We’re fulfilling one pact by breaking another; it cancels out. Besides, the cleric your father hired to do your wedding ceremony wasn’t certified, and the barbaric matrimonial traditions of the South haven’t been viable for centuries. You needn’t be worried about being an oath breaker, Prince Zuko, for you were never married in the first place!”

This was wrong. It was all so very, very wrong.

From outside, a man screamed in agony but was quickly cut off. The battle was slowly dying down as more and more Greyjoys and Targaryens flooded into Winterfell.

“Are you going to kill him?” Zuko whispered, praying his voice wouldn’t waver.

“Who, the Stark boy? Of _course_ we’ll kill him—we don’t want the vassals rallying to his aid, now do we? We’ll make sure the girl just alive enough to keep Hakoda cooperative and then once Ba Sing Se falls, we’ll kill her and whoever’s leftover. Four hundred years is awfully long for a House to rule the South, don’t you think? It’s time for a new House to take its place, a fresh start.”

And then Uncle Iroh’s face was rising up from the darkness behind his eyelids, leveling him with pleading eyes. Zuko’s knuckles whitened against his dao swords. He knew what he had to do. It would go against everything he was raised to believe, but he had to do it. “Save him for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“His life. It’s mine to take.” Zuko swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Unless he’s already fallen…?”

“No. One of the last ones standing, but at this point we’re just toying around with him—least we can do is give you the luxury of putting the poor boy out of his misery.”

Zuko nodded, his grip tightening around his dao swords. The dragon eggs were a reassuring weight at his side as he followed Jee out of the keep, and he prayed to any god or spirit that was listening that he was making the right decision for once.

The courtyard was eerily still compared to when he’d previously passed through it, the last strangled cries of the wounded and dying slowly puttering into silence. Many Greyjoy and Targaryen soldiers were standing around with their helmets off and their swords dangling at their sides, talking and laughing and swigging from their wine sleeves while their comrades snuffed out what few Winterfell residents were still clinging to life.

Zuko stepped over the corpse of one of Katara’s waterbending trainees, her scorched body shielding the lifeless form of a child with an arrow through his chest. The air smelled like fire and metal and sweat and death, and Zuko did his best to not look afraid as all around him the Stark banners burned, the Greyjoy kraken unfurling to take the dire wolf’s place. Speaking of, Yue and Jet were nowhere to be found, and Zuko’s heart somehow managed to contract even further at the thought of their bodies being dragged away to make cloaks and rugs from their pelts.

A group of soldiers was clustered in the center of the courtyard, jeering and laughing, though they all whirled around in shock at the sight of Zuko’s approach. They slowly dispersed to reveal Sokka with his hands cuffed behind his back, one knee on the ground with an arrow through it and the other propping his body up weakly. His face was a bloody mess, his fur cloak torn to bits, and his armor was charred and in pieces. The worst part, though, was the shattered, resigned expression on his face. His gaze was distant. The gaze of someone praying for their suffering to be over soon.

When he saw Zuko, his expression contorted into something heartbroken, and though one of his eyes was swollen shut, he still held Zuko’s gaze.

“Ah, Prince Zuko, so wonderful of you to join us!” Zuko turned to find Lord Zhao Clegane strolling over, not a speck of blood on him and his eyes shining with victory. “I’m infinitely glad that the Starks hadn’t put you to death for refusing to fight your true family!”

Zuko could only nod, never taking his eyes off of Sokka as his heart slammed against his ribcage like a trapped songbird. 

Zhao must’ve noticed where Zuko was looking, because he laughed, “You needn’t be afraid, Prince Zuko, the wolf has been tamed.”

Sokka growled but seemed too weak to say anything else, his eyes fluttering as he swayed forward. In doing so, Zuko caught a glimpse of the two arrows embedded into his back like a pair of broken wings.

Zhao continued on, “His execution will be at sundown. We’ve sent our messenger hawks to all of his vassals requesting they bend the knee to House Greyjoy or be destroyed, and even included a little invitation in case they wanted to watch their Lord burn.”

“…burn?” Zuko whispered. He’d expected hanging. Beheading. Maybe even a firing squad of crossbows. But not this.

Sokka made a noise at the back of his throat, a miserable, pitiful thing that sounded more like the whimper of a terrified child than a defeated soldier. Behind him, Zuko recognized Grey Wind’s hulking form slumped amid a pile of other corpses, the shaft of a spear having sprung from his neck.

“Of course, my Lord,” Zhao said with a grin. “Death by fire is the purest death, after all.”

“No.”

All of the soldiers who’d been pretending not to listen in on the conversation turned to face them in unison, their eyebrows raised and their mouths gossiping behind the shields of their hands. Zhao tilted his head, and though his smile never wavered, his eyes had grown hard.

“Whatever do you mean, my Lord?”

“Sokka Stark is an honorable man. He fought with honor, and deserves a death with honor.” Zuko cleared his throat, refusing to meet Sokka’s frightened eyes. “I will do it. Though our cleric wasn’t certified, his shaman has bound us together in his ways. It will be just the two of us, with an escort if you wish, but no more than that.”

A Greyjoy woman stepped forward, her face covered with blood. “Absolutely not, I refuse! If anyone, it must be me to kill this Stark! I must avenge my brothers—”

“Sokka is not the one who killed your brothers,” Zuko replied calmly. “Perhaps it’d be best if you asked my father for Hakoda’s life once House Baratheon has been destroyed.”

The Greyjoy woman seemed about to argue, but took one look at Zuko and then at the Targaryen soldiers that greatly outnumbered her own forces, before nodding. “Make it slow, Prince Zuko.”

“I will not. It…it shall be beheading.” An eruption of disappointed murmurs from the crowd, but Zuko tilted his chin up. “And it will be now. That is my final verdict.”

Sokka’s eyes widened in horror as two Targaryen soldiers grabbed him by the arms and hauled him upright, and Zuko tried to ignore the delighted look on Zhao’s face as he placed Sokka’s confiscated space sword into Zuko’s outstretched palm; Zuko’s dao were hardly strong enough to behead someone in one swing.

“Where to, my Lord?” one of the soldiers asked, his voice muffled behind the soulless face of his mask.

“There’s a courtyard by the crypts. Take him there.”

Sokka’s feet dragged in the snow as the soldiers obeyed, and though he was battered and exhausted, he still managed to put up a small struggle as Zuko trailed behind them like a shadow. People jeered and laughed as they passed, one person even having the audacity the throw a stone at Sokka’s head that glanced off his temple, but once they reached the courtyard in front of the crypt, it’d grown blissfully quiet.

All of the totem poles had been burned to ashes or were in the process of burning, and the sight made Sokka groan in sorrow through bloodied lips. The soldiers dumped him at the center of the courtyard before retreating to a respectful distance, and though they pretended to turn their backs to give some illusion of privacy, Zuko could see them glancing over their shoulders.

“I’m so sorry this had to happen,” Zuko whispered, finally allowing his eyes to well up. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Sokka didn’t say anything, his sadness having quickly morphed to rage. Had he had the strength to take back his sword, he probably would’ve run Zuko through right with it there and then.

Zuko lowered his voice. “Katara?”

“She’s gone—with Yue and Jet along with her to keep her safe. You’ll never find her.”

“But…is she safe?”

“It’s not like it matters to you,” Sokka spat, his spittle mixed with blood. “Gran Gran’s dead. So’s the shaman. Everyone I love and care about is dead except for one and you have the _audacity_ to ask me if that one person is safe?”

“You have every right to be angry. You have every right to hate me.”

“Fuck you,” Sokka’s voice was trembling, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Fuck you to hell and back. I will hurt you for this. I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think you're safe and happy and the joy will turn to ashes in your mouth and you will know the debt is paid.”

Zuko nodded and turned to the guards. “Both of you, approach. I need your help.”

“I don’t want to die,” Sokka whispered as the Targaryen soldiers shuffled over, none to eagerly. “I’m afraid.”

“My Lord, what wish for us to do?” one guard asked.

“Remove your helmets, please.”

The soldiers exchanged a look, hesitating for a few moments before obeying. Both were older men whom Zuko had never met before, which was for the better, he supposed.

“Sir, I don’t see why—”

With a mighty swing of Sokka’s space sword, Zuko had beheaded the both of them before they could even draw breath to shout. The sword was so sharp that it cleaved right through the first man’s head but got stuck halfway through the second, and Zuko grimaced as the man collapsed, heaving it over his head before bringing it back down to separate it all the way.

“WHAT THE—?!”

Zuko slammed his hand over Sokka’s mouth, shushing him even as the boy’s eyes went alight with shocked delight, grinning against Zuko’s palm. “I told you I had no idea this was going to happen.”

A shaky laugh bubbled up from Sokka’s throat as Zuko withdrew, wiping the sword in the snow. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this a joke?”

“Sokka Stark, I am not an oath breaker,” Zuko murmured, and Sokka’s eyes widened as Zuko pulled the engagement necklace from his pocket and tied it around his neck. “I refuse to follow in my father’s footsteps. It…it’s what my uncle would’ve wanted me to do.”

Sokka exhaled raggedly as Zuko handed his sword back to him, grabbed his hand, and hauled him onto his good leg, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “We have more talking to do after this, but do you have any idea how we can get out of here without anyone seeing?”

Sokka nodded, though there were still tears leaking from his eyes—from joy or grief or pain, Zuko didn’t know. “There’s a secret path out in the crypt. Katara used it to escape, and if she did what I told her to do, she should be in the Weirwood grove by now.”

“I hope this debt you were talking about shall be considered paid. I know and I’m sorry that I can’t bring back the shaman or your grandmother but—”

“I’m glad to have you as my husband, Zuko. I’m…I’m still not sure how I feel about you, but I know that I’m grateful for this.”

Zuko smiled softly. “Thanks. Let’s just make sure we don’t die before we work everything out first.”

“Consider it a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was so much fun, though it did take me a while because fight scenes are tricky!!! Please leave a comment and kudos if you liked it (They are such a great inspiration!! I was having writer's block for this chapter and a super kind comment inspired me to push through and finish it!!)
> 
> Strap in for Part II..........we're about to meet someone you all know and love.......


	11. What is Dead May Never Die: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka and Zuko must escape from Winterfell and meet up with Katara in the Weirwood grove. But with Sokka gravely injured and the Weirwood's notorious hatred of firebenders, this may prove to be a more difficult task than they'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Mentions of violence and gore, injury, heavy angst, minor character(?) death

**XI.**

**WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE: PART II**

Had Sokka’s ego been any bigger, getting rescued by Zuko probably would’ve been the most humiliating thing that’d ever happened to him. After all that fighting and all that pain and heartbreak, Sokka had needed to be rescued by his _Targaryen husband_ of all people. Zuko hadn’t had to help him, hadn’t had to risk his life and betray his own family, but he’d done it anyway.

In the end, Sokka was just happy to be alive.

“Careful,” Zuko murmured as they made their way down the spiral staircase to the catacombs. “Tell me if you’re going to fall.”

Sokka felt like he’d been run over by a stampede of arctic yak and still very much had an arrow shot through one of his legs, so the process was slow and excruciatingly painful. Zuko had cut off the shafts of the arrows so that the parts still embedded into his flesh wouldn’t get jostled and mangle the wounds even further, but as long as Sokka kept moving—his muscles pulling and stretching with every miserable one-footed hop—the wounds remained agonizing.

He almost wished Zuko had just yanked the arrows right out and used his firebending to cauterize what remained, but neither of them wanted to risk Sokka bleeding out when he could just as easily have been healed by Katara once they found her in the Weirwood grove.

 _IF you find her. She could’ve been gunned down by archers on the battlements, her body lost in the snow,_ a voice in his head reminded, and Sokka’s one good leg buckled with exhaustion.

Zuko winced, nearly tipping over as he was suddenly burdened with the brunt of Sokka’s weight, but gritted his teeth and managed to steady the both of them before they tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs.

“You…you can leave me behind, if they catch up to us,” Sokka managed around the blood that pooled in his mouth. He felt like a mad dog, frothing and trembling. “I’ll just slow you down.”

“Would I really put my life on the line rescuing you just to leave you to die moments after?” Zuko demanded with a roll of his eyes as they finally reached the bottom of the staircase. “I’m not an idiot.”

The crypt stretched out before them, the candles burning so low that it was nearly impossible to see. Thankfully, the invading armies hadn’t had the time to come down there after they burned the sacred totem poles. It’d been cleaned up for the most part, the strewn rubble and offerings having been swept away, but the tombs themselves still bore their ragged, gaping holes. Echoes of the ransack. Sokka recalled how he’d mulled over this issue, wondering how he’d be able to restore them to their former glory while his House was on the outs with the earthbenders.

“You know, maybe some clairvoyant mage was responsible for the theft,” Zuko said, raising the hand that wasn’t keeping Sokka upright to nurture a flame. “Maybe they knew that this would happen, and wanted to protect your ancestors’ bodies from being desecrated by the invasion.”

“It’s a…a…” He grimaced and spit blood onto the floor so it’d stop slurring his words. “It’s a…nice thought.”

Zuko pursed his lips into a thin line. “Maybe you should try not to talk so much. Preserve your strength. Where’s the secret exit again?”

“Trapdoor beneath Viserion’s skull. Gotta…gotta wriggle through the…through…” Sokka gave up and instead opened his mouth, pointing.

“Thank you. Now shut up and focus on not dying.”

“Yes, sir,” Sokka snorted, but his mirth didn’t last for long as he hobbled past his mother’s crypt and felt his face crumple.

Her statue was nearly destroyed, part of her face cleaved off as if it were made of wax, and even though Sokka hadn’t had the courage to visit since the raid, Katara had most certainly done so; the hole in the tomb was covered with a woven blanket, offerings had been made, and there was a note tucked between her fingers like always.

 _I should say goodbye,_ Sokka thought. _I should say something, anything._

He’d already let his father go without a farewell. He couldn’t do the same for his mother.

“Zuko…” he hardly had the breath to say anything else.

“Are you sure, Sokka? It…it’s just a statue. She’s not here anymore.”

“Shut up.” Sokka’s eyes stung as he leaned as far as he could in Zuko’s arms, reaching out to cup the one side of his mother’s face that was still intact.

He ran his thumb over her cheek and cringed as it left a smear of blood behind.

 _I couldn’t protect her,_ he thought as guilt crawled up his throat and made it hard to breathe. _Not in life, not in death, and now I can’t even protect the marker that was supposed to keep her memory alive for eternity._

It didn’t even look like her anymore…not that a body made of stone could ever compare to the warmth and vitality of a living soul in the first place. Zuko was right; it was odd, how he was still attached to the statue even when her body was long gone.

“We can’t linger for long,” Zuko murmured, and Sokka couldn’t help the broken noise that escaped his lips as his husband gently led him away. “They’ve no doubt grown suspicious of our absence by now. The crypt is the first place they’ll check.”

Sokka knew he was right, but nevertheless kept glancing over his shoulder, watching as his mother grew farther and farther away before disappearing around the corner. He wondered if he’d ever step foot in this crypt again, if he’d ever step foot in _Winterfell_ again, or if this was the last time he’d be home. House Stark had held this stronghold for four hundred years, had built it from the foundations of Burlaq the Builder and back up from the rubble after the Great Conquest. They’d commanded armies, gained vassals, and transformed the South from a barren wasteland to a place teeming with sprawling castles and rich culture. And Sokka had been the one to squander it.

He’d heard legends of his ancestors, how Kodir could kill twenty men with a single swing of his sword and how Munah never once sustained an injury in battle, as though swords and arrows could not touch her. Even Hakoda was a legend among men, the Wolf of the South whose battle prowess and tactical skills were unmatched across the land and sea.

Perhaps if Sokka had been more like the Lords and Ladies who’d come before him, Winterfell wouldn’t be flying Greyjoy and Targaryen banners now. Perhaps if he’d inherited their gifts in war or maybe even their bending, none of this would’ve happened. What if he’d seen the threat sooner? What if he’d trained harder?

“Hey, I can see your mind wandering,” Zuko snorted. “You have nothing to blame yourself for. There isn’t anything you could’ve done.”

“But—”

“I thought I told you to save your strength.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice that made something zing up Sokka’s spine. “You can’t concentrate on surviving if you keep wallowing in self-loathing. I swear, if you die after all this—"

Zuko’s breath hitched as Viserion’s skull came into view at the end of the tunnel, but he didn’t hesitate to approach the gleaming bones gathering dust in the firelight. And to think the last time they’d been here together, Sokka had bestowed Zuko with the same betrothal necklace he wore on his neck now.

The feud between them had been burning and wild, spawned from mutual fear of one another, and yet it seemed as though they’d been so much younger. So much more innocent. Perhaps that was just what war and tragedy did to people, even in a matter of weeks, but Sokka couldn’t help but feel as though something had been ripped from them, something that’d they’d never be able to get back.

 _Our virginities, for one thing,_ Sokka thought with a snort.

There was a hole in the mouth of the skull where one of the dragon’s teeth had been taken by Sokka’s great grandfather to make into a drinking horn, and Zuko found it easily enough.

“Do you think you can hold yourself up while I slip through?” Zuko asked.

Sokka would’ve lied, but that wouldn’t’ve helped either of them. “No.”

“Okay. Let me figure something out.”

After a lot of muttered curses, tripping, and jostling that nearly made Sokka black out twice, they finally managed to wriggle into the skull. The trapdoor set into the stones was still open— _spirits, Katara, why’d you take a risk like that?!_ —and Sokka had an even more difficult time lowering himself down into it, even with Zuko supporting ninety percent of his body weight.

The tunnel was pitch-dark but blessedly short—since the crypts already jutted somewhat outside of Winterfell’s walls—and Zuko’s firebending came in plenty handy to melt the snow that’d already accumulated on top of the escape hatch; sometime between Sokka’s almost-execution and now, the snowstorm in the distance had blown in.

The shock of the cold almost brought Sokka to his knees, but he clenched his teeth and powered through it as to not stress Zuko out even further. The firebender hadn’t even taken a pelt with him, instead clad in a royal outfit that looked exactly like all his others…though Sokka did catch a few glimpses of the sleeves being lined with fur. Only the blood red leaves of the Weirwood grove were visible through the flurry of snow, thrashing around wildly and getting carried away in the wind like some kind of mirage.

“It’s only about a thousand paces, no?” Zuko cried over the howl of the squall as the two of them pushed through the snow, bowing against the gusts that battered them. “And the storm should hide us from any watchers on the wall.”

Sokka couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t be lost to the storm, so he only nodded weakly. The adrenaline from the battle was starting to fade, and his consciousness along with it. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep pushing himself before his body declared a mandatory shutdown and he collapsed face-first into a snow drift. The brutal cold didn’t help, and after the first few minutes of walking, Sokka’s fingers went numb. His toes soon after. The scraps of his fur cloak and the crumpled, half-melted remains of his armor stood little chance against the wrath of the South. But when he looked over at Zuko, at the way his jaw was set and his eyes were narrowed in determination even as he lugged his half-dead barbarian husband through a blizzard, he couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of hope in his ribcage.

“The Weirwood isn’t going to want me here,” Zuko said as the grove pierced through the snow like a desert mirage, its swirling bark finally joining the red leaves in their line of sight. “You promised that I’d never come back and now…you’re going to have to protect me.”

“I…I’ll try.” He sounded faint, like a sickly child about to be taken by fever, and Zuko gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze even though Sokka wasn’t quite sure if he’d heard him. “Katara should…should be at the…center. By the…Weirwood tree. Just…keep walking straight; don’t stray, no matter what you see.”

Under any other circumstances, the Weirwood grove would’ve never allowed Katara anywhere near its heart, but Sokka knew that with Yue and Jet at her side and the Weirwood’s undoubted knowledge of the massacre of its protectors back at Winterfell, he was pretty sure it’d make an exception. What Sokka _wasn’t_ sure of was if it’d allow him to reach Katara with his husband tagging along.

Zuko took a few moments to steel himself as they paused at the very edge of the trees, shifting his weight from foot to foot as the wind buffeted them relentlessly. Sokka could see the terror in his golden eyes, wide and glassy just as Silver Dancer’s had been when he’d lain bleeding to death in the snow. No doubt Zuko was reliving those moments now, wondering if taking the final step was worth the risk of getting the both of them killed.

“Zuko…” Sokka’s lips had been welded together with frost. “We should…I…cold.”

The words shocked Zuko into awareness like a bolt of lightning, spurring the firebender into the woods with a pace that’d been quickened by fear. Sokka had to plant his hand against Zuko’s chest to get him to slow down, lest his good leg gave out and he got dragged through the snow for a few yards before Zuko finally realized what’d happened.

_I wish Grey Wind was here,_ Sokka thought miserably, fighting back the sorrow that threatened to take hold of him. _Not to mention how Zuko had to leave Roan Summer behind…_

“It’s awfully quiet,” Zuko whispered, as if he feared his voice would set off alarms if he dared to raise it. “Just like the last time I was here.”

This was definitely not okay, but Sokka didn’t have the energy to say so and didn’t think it’d help Zuko’s uneasiness; usually, the moment Sokka stepped foot within the Weirwood grove’s bounds he was being bombarded with memories of dragons and wolves, of men with strange banners and women who spoke in the tongues of gods. The silence was unnerving.

“At least we have some respite from the wind.” At this point Zuko was just talking to himself for reassurance. “And…it does seem to be a lot warmer here. Even though, I was—am—afraid, I…I always wanted to go horseback riding with you here. Or on a walk. The South has been difficult for me, especially with winter making the days colder and the nights darker, and I couldn’t help but long for trees and birdsong, for warmth and sunlight.”

A pang of remorse gripped Sokka’s heart like a fist at the sight of Zuko’s wistful expression, his gaze distant as if he were recalling the North’s rolling hills of lush grass and woods and wildflowers that Sokka had so often heard or read about but never truly seen.

Zuko went on, “While you were holed up in your study following…that whole thing with the crypt, Katara told me that you used to see dragons here. I’ve always wanted to see a dragon. A living, breathing one and not just the bones that my family keeps in their temples.”

Sokka stumbled on a rocky outcrop, and on instinct he planted both his feet to steady himself, yelping at the agony that raced up his leg as the arrowhead squirmed in his thigh. He tried not to think about the edges splitting through flesh and sinew and bone, ripping him apart slowly from the inside as his muscles twitched and seized around it with a fresh gush of blood.

“Before they moved the skulls to the temples, my grandfather Azulon used to keep them in the throne room.”

Zuko’s cheerfulness was desperate now, his eyes welling up whenever he dared to glance Sokka’s way and behold the miserable, agonized expression on his face. He was trying to distract, trying to soothe both Sokka and himself with hopes that the spirits would take pity on them.

“When I was ten, my father used to walk me down the rows, and I’d recite their names for him. When I got them all right, he’d give me a sweet. The ones closest to the door were the last ones they were able to hatch, and they were all stunted and wrong, skulls no bigger than dog skulls. But as you got closer to the Iron Throne, they got bigger…and bigger…and bigger.”

A wolf cried out to the east, the call high-pitched and distorted like several voices echoing at once, and though Zuko flinched violently, his mouth kept moving and his pace never wavered. “There was Ghiscar and Valryon and Vermethrax…Essovius and Meraxes and Vhaegar…and finally Balerion the Dread, whose fire was used by Sozin the Conqueror to forge the empire of House Targaryen during the Great Conquest.”

Another howl, this time closer, and a heavy weight settled on Sokka’s shoulders. The guardians of the forest would be upon them, soon, and there was little likelihood that Sokka could convince them to look the other way for a second time…especially since he hadn’t had time to visit the Weirwood grove since the wedding.

“The Iron Throne always used to fascinate me…especially since I was forbidden from entering the throne room when I was very young. My father said it was made with a thousand swords from Sozin’s fallen enemies, all melted together into a seat by the breath of Balerion the Dread. What do a thousand swords look like to a little boy who could barely count to twenty? I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb, so many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of my grandfather’s feet. But…when I finally got to see it, it was a letdown by all stretches of the imagination; just a throne made of swords, after all, and—”

A gigantic, shaggy body peeled itself from the shadows, and Zuko stopped in his tracks, his voice getting strangled in his throat as the wolf regarded the both of them with blazing blue eyes. Sokka clung tighter to Zuko, praying he could stay awake long enough to reason with these spirits as more wolves surrounded them, hackles raised and teeth bared. The anger that hummed in the air felt like the buzzing of a swarm of bees protecting their hive from intruders.

“Listen…” Sokka croaked as the biggest wolf broke away from the pack, looking more disappointed than angry as it stopped a yard or two away from them. “I…I know this…this looks bad, but—”

He coughed, blood splattering across his chin, and Zuko pulled his sleeve over his hand so he could wipe it away.

Gritting his teeth through the agony of raising his voice to an audible level, Sokka managed to rasp, “I…I know you guys have eyes. I know…you’re…smart. I’m not in good shape, and I’d be in even…worse shape if Zuko hadn’t…saved me from the attacking forces.”

The biggest wolf laid its ears back at Zuko’s name as its tail lashed back and forth. A low growl rumbled in its throat, a warning, and its pack echoed the sentiment. Zuko’s grip tightened on his shoulder, and even through his clothing Sokka could feel his palms heating up, preparing for a fight.

“I understand…I promised he’d never return…but I need him. He saved me, and…I need him to…bring me to my sister. We’ll…we’ll leave right after…but…”

The wolves grumbled amongst themselves, snuffling and pawing at the snow, and it was only then that Sokka realized they were afraid. Afraid of what the firebenders would do to them. Afraid that the whole grove would be burned to ashes, destroying all the memories and history and magic that’d permeated into the soil and soaked into the trees. Perhaps they, too, were connected to the Weirwood just like the surrounding forest, and would die screaming in the inferno once the tree went up in flames.

“Please. Maybe we can help all of you, too,” Zuko pleaded. “But we don’t have much time.”

He was weakening. The air was too cold and the combined weight of his satchel and Sokka was too heavy. Sokka could feel how Zuko’s knees threatened to buckle with every shuffle and shift of weight. If the wolves chased them off and turned them out onto the tundra, they’d be dead by morning, frozen in the snow or shot full of Greyjoy arrows before they could reach the docks.

“Please,” Sokka whispered. “I know…you don’t owe me anything, but please…”

One of the other wolves whined, shaking the snow off of its fur, and the lead wolf hesitated, looking to its brethren. Ears twitched, tails lashed, and bodies shifted restlessly, a silent language that Sokka would’ve given anything to understand. He and Zuko waited with baited breath, exchanging anxious glances out of the corners of their eyes as the wolves seemed to discuss the situation among themselves.

Finally, a grunt from the alpha, and Zuko’s eyes widened when the wolf gestured with its chin and began to trot off into the trees with its tail held high, the rest of the pack flitting after it like a flock of timorous shadows.

“I think we’re supposed to follow,” Zuko said, though it sounded more like a question than anything else, and Sokka nodded as they continued on through the woods. Some of the pack trailed behind them and around them, giving them a wide berth but herding them forward nonetheless. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Not at all…worse every moment. How…are the dragon eggs?”

“Getting a little heavy, to be honest.” Zuko’s expression turned sad as they stepped over a babbling brook. The air was getting warmer with each step—the wolves must’ve been leading them on the express route to the Weirwood. “I’m really sorry I didn’t save more things from your room. I…I was thinking primarily of myself, and I shouldn’t have been.”

“What…else did you get?”

“The Blue Spirit mask. Some money and clothes.”

“You were…planning on…leaving, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I was going to flee to my family’s home on Ember Island and wait for my uncle after the war. But I changed my mind. I’m so, so sorry.”

“S’okay. You…deserve to…pursue your own happiness. But…I…I’m…glad you…didn’t…”

Sokka let out a bitter chuckle as his legs finally gave out and Zuko wasn’t strong enough to keep him standing, both of them collapsing to the ground and startling the spectral wolves. The snow felt like the cold hands of death grabbing at him, wrapping him up in its sweet embrace and clinging to his clothes and skin like a promise.

It was only then that Sokka finally allowed himself to cry. The tears that’d been festering behind his eyelids burst forth like a dam, and he sobbed as Zuko gathered him up in his arms. Zuko attempted to get his own legs under himself so he could carry Sokka bridal-style, but his face was chalky and his lips were chapped and peeling. He was exhausted. He had nothing left to give.

“Come on, come on!” Zuko cried when his strength failed him, though it sounded more like he was scolding himself than Sokka. The world was growing blurry at the edges. “Come on, we’re so close!”

He pressed his hand against Sokka’s forehead, his fingertips like a kiss of fire on Sokka’s cold and clammy skin. “Fuck, you’re going into shock—”

“Hurts,” Sokka choked, all of the agonies he’d been ignoring up until that point bombarding him at full force now that he wasn’t hyperfocused on putting one foot in front of the other. He felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams, like his body had been heated to a boil only to be plunged into the frigid depths of the sea. “Hurts…so bad.”

He coughed, more blood bubbling up from between his lips, and Zuko’s eyes widened. “No. No, you’re not finished yet! We’re married, you fucking dunce, so you can’t die until I say so!”

_I don’t think that’s how it works,_ Sokka thought, and if he’d had the brain capacity to roll his eyes, he would’ve. _If that was the case, both of our moms would still be alive._

Zuko whirled on the wolves, all of his fear of them burned away by the stubborn fire that’d ignited behind his irises, “Get Katara! Please! He’s…he’s…” _Dying._ “…hurt very badly! Please, go!”

Sokka couldn’t help but feel a dull sense of pride as the guardians, timid and a bit indignant from being addressed in such a manner, reluctantly obeyed, taking off into the trees with yips and howls; Zuko might’ve lost the title of heir, but he sure did act like one.

“Okay, you little shit, your job is to not die in the handful of minutes it takes Katara to get here,” Zuko snapped as he took Sokka’s hand in his own. Their joined fingers were like ice, pinkened at the tips with frostnip well on its way to becoming frostbite. “I swear to the old gods and the new if you die…”

Another tear slipped halfway down Sokka’s cheek and turned to ice. “I want my mom.”

“No, you don’t!” Zuko shrilled, his grip on Sokka’s hand tightening to something almost painful. “You don’t want your mom! Your mom is the _last_ person you want to see right now! How about your dad, huh?”

Sokka shook his head, his lips trembling. He wanted her arms around him, her voice singing softly in his ear. He wanted to curl up by her legs as she sat in the armchair by the fire, listening to her tell stories while she rocked Katara to sleep. He wanted to see her sly smiles to him during formal events, the roll of her eyes and quirk of her lips whenever a Lord or Lady said something particularly ridiculous. But whenever he tried to imagine her face, all he could see was the crumbled statue he’d left behind in the crypt, cold and soulless and very, very much not his mother.

His eyes fluttered, black creeping up to the edges of his vision, and was vaguely aware of Zuko shouting at him, begging for him to stay awake. The world was a mass of light and colors, swimming past him in a haze of red leaves and blue sky and raven hair and big golden eyes.

_Perhaps it would’ve been better if Zuko just beheaded you,_ a voice in his head sighed. _At least then you had accepted defeat, had come to terms with your fate and never known the delicious taste of victory lingering inches from your grasp, only to be ripped away in an instant._

There was yelling, argument, but Sokka couldn’t hear. The voices might as well have been talking through water. A face loomed up in his vision right beside Zuko’s. Brown skin. Blue eyes. Betrothal necklace at her throat. She was holding something that was glowing.

“Mom?” Sokka whispered hopefully.

And then there was agony. Something was getting ripped from his leg and yanked from his back and someone was putting their hands on his wounds and _NO PLEASE STOP IT HURTS_ —

He’d been floating away, barely attached to his body, and now it felt as though a rough hand had seized his soul and shoved it roughly back into its broken and battered shell. Sight and sound returned to him in sharp, staggering focus, and a pained groan slipped from between his lips. The horrible pain faded, slowly and blissfully as if it were only a dream.

“Oh, thank the spirits,” Zuko breathed, cupping Sokka’s face in his hands. His cheeks were tearstained but he was smiling from ear to ear. “I was worried I’d have to live the rest of my life knowing that Sokka Stark died in my arms.”

“Quite romantic, don’t you think?” Sokka’s throat felt like the Si Wong desert, but he still managed a chuckle. “One of the better ways to go.”

“Ugh, both of you are giving me a headache.”

Sokka’s eyes widened to a comical degree when he craned his neck to regard Katara, who was manipulating streams of glowing water over his whole body, easing the pain more and more with every flick of her wrist.

“Katara—”

“Dude. Not cool. I thought you were dead. And then the wolves came and brought me to you and I realized you were alive but you weren’t going to be for long and—” Her voice cracked terribly and she looked away. “I thought I’d lost everyone.”

A wet nose pushed into Sokka’s hair, and he chuckled as Yue began to lick the salt of his tears and blood off his face like a doting mother. Her white fur was bloodstained in places, but she didn’t seem too rattled. “Well, not everyone. Besides, I don’t think I’m going anywhere anytime soon, thanks to you.”

“Hey, don’t give me the credit.” Katara shoved Zuko playfully. “Jerkbender here’s the one who rescued you from his family and hauled you the whole way. I just did a little magic at the end.”

“And if you hadn’t done that, he’d be just as dead now as he would’ve been at the hands of the invaders,” Zuko retorted. “But seriously, don’t scare us like that again. I don’t know what I’d do if you died.”

Sokka smiled softly, giving Zuko’s hand another squeeze before rolling off of his lap so he could throw his arms around Katara’s neck. “I’m so glad you got out okay. I was so worried…”

“Jet and Yue protected me; they helped fight through the mob and led me to the center of the grove once we got here. Without them, I don’t think I would’ve made it. Jet actually had an arrow sticking out of him for a while.”

“Well, I know whose getting extra treats next time we get some,” Sokka crooned, and Yue yipped excitedly, hopping around from foot to foot and smothering him in nuzzles and kisses. “What about you, Jet, are you a good boy?”

Jet’s back was turned to all of them as he kept vigilant watch on the spectral guardians surrounding them like a bashful herd of blue-eyed, long-toothed sheep. His black fur made him look as though he belonged among them, and Sokka realized that the wolf had a piece of grass dangling from his mouth, as if he’d been chasing mice in the brush. Sokka had no idea what Katara had done to make the wolf so serious, always so unwilling to let go and be a pet, but Jet’s tail did wag ever so slightly at the mention of treats, almost as if he were too proud to show his excitement.

“Alright, let’s get you up,” Zuko sighed, rising to his feet and extending his hand, and Sokka gladly took it. Although he was still weary, he no longer felt as though he were going to pass out any moment. “Lean on me if you need to.”

Sokka was a bit shaky in the knees and achy in the joints, tottering like a newborn calf and needing ample support from Katara and Zuko, but he laughed it off as best as he could.

“Okay, so the docks are about ten miles north of here—”

A whimper made the three of them turn, and Jet’s hackles rose as the leader of the forest guardians slunk forward, its head hanging low and its tail tucked between its legs. No longer was it the deranged spirit that Zuko had spoken of, chasing down him and Silver Dancer and nearly eating them alive. It looked small. Terrified.

“We can’t leave them,” Sokka growled before he could think better of it, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of the space sword in its sheath.

“Are you kidding?!” Katara demanded. “If we stay here any longer, the Greyjoys will—!”

Sokka cut her off, “Our family swore a vow to protect the Weirwood grove. We can’t let the Targaryens raze it; too many oaths have been broken today, and I refuse to let the oldest of them all join them.”

“But how are we going to do that? We couldn’t defend Winterfell with a handful of soldiers and a gigantic wall; how could we possibly protect this grove with just the three of us?”

“I don’t know how.” Sokka turned to the lead wolf, dipping his head. “But I assume you do?”

The wolf hesitated but made a motion that looked awfully like a nod, eying Jet warily as it lumbered past and headed in the direction they’d been going before Sokka had collapsed. Katara followed with Yue and Jet flanking her on either side, but when Sokka made a move to join them, Zuko caught his wrist. His expression was tight.

“Why do you always have to be the hero?” Zuko whispered. “Why can’t…why can’t you ever think of yourself?”

“Because House Stark doesn’t go back on its word.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” He sounded more tired than angry. “A jibe at my House? Sokka, I thought we were past this—"

“It’s not an insult. Just a statement. My House is loved. Revered. Our honor has already been tarnished so greatly by this war, and I can’t have it sullied any further.”

“Well, if you keep wasting time trying to get people to love you, you’ll wind up the most popular dead man in town.”

Sokka grinned. “Better than someone feared by all and loved by none.”

They reached the clearing of the Weirwood much quicker than Sokka thought, and Zuko hesitated at the outskirts, his throat bobbing as he caught a glimpse of the ancient tree through the foliage. Despite the hurricane that echoed in the distance, the cloudy sky that stretched over this clearing was calm, the occasional flurry whisking by. It was as almost as if it were the eye of the storm, the rest of the squall whipping around it like wild souls locked in a deadly dance.

The ever-present murmur of disembodied voices had gone silent, as if all of the spirits had packed up and left at the first sign of danger.

“It’s okay,” Katara assured, her fingers curling in Jet’s fur as the guardians of the grove filtered in around them and gathered in the clearing like a pool of ink. “Just follow our lead. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try not to,” Zuko muttered.

The Weirwood was just as beautiful as it’d been before the wedding, as white as snow and just as dazzling. The swirling, eyelike designs of the wood made it look as though the three of them were standing before a jury in judgement, and Sokka couldn’t help but wither beneath their gazes. One glance at the haggard face in the bark showed that it’d been weeping more sap than usual, fresh trickles bursting forth and running down the notches and swirls and splinters before they soaked into the earth.

It wasn’t hard to see it living a thousand lifetimes, seeing a thousand faces and making thousands of millions of memories. Though they’d grown apart during the few weeks that Zuko had been there, Sokka still considered the Weirwood an important figure in his life; it’d been a source of solace, a haven of magic and wonder. When Sokka was younger and had little to worry about except a lifeful of drudgery tethered to Winterfell as its Lord, the Weirwood was the closest he’d gotten to the adventure he’d always wanted. The mere thought of the Targaryens burning it to ashes made his stomach churn sourly.

A three-eyed raven burst from the trees with a screech as the trio came to a stop in front of the Weirwood, nearly scaring everyone out of their skins. It alighted on one of the Weirwood’s lowermost branches, seeming to take a particular dislike to Zuko as its feathers bristled and all three of its eyes glared.

“Should I go?” Zuko asked, his frost-reddened cheeks flushing even further with humiliation and guilt. “Maybe it’d be best if—"

He was already making a move to retreat, but Sokka grabbed his arm. “No. Stay. You’re a Stark now…it’s basically a rite of passage to meet the Weirwood at one point or another.”

Sokka and Katara bowed, Zuko catching on quickly and copying them, and Sokka cleared his throat in the hopes that he didn’t sound too afraid.

“I’m…I’m so sorry. You probably know this already, but…we’ve been double-crossed. The Targaryens and Greyjoys invaded Winterfell now that all of our soldiers are off to war, and…”

“…we weren’t strong enough to fight them off,” Katara finished.

“If my husband, Lord Zuko Stark—whom you know used to be of House Targaryen— hadn’t turned his back on his own family and rescued me from execution, I wouldn’t be standing before you right now. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for allowing him to return here.”

Sokka wrung his hands and took in a wavering breath, unsure of whether it’d be the best idea to say what everyone was thinking aloud; the Weirwood, though perhaps in a bit of a crisis at the moment, was still very much capable of killing them—these nervous wolf guardians could just as easily turn bloodthirsty if the Weirwood commanded them as such.

Before he could convince himself otherwise, Sokka murmured, “They plan on burning this place to the ground.”

An uproar from the wolves, who howled and whined amongst themselves, pacing restlessly. One of them whirled on Zuko, snarling, but Yue was there to plant herself between them with her hackles raised and her teeth bared. A screech echoed overhead, and Zuko gasped as a flickering dragon whipped over the treetops, casting its shadow over them like a harbinger of death before circling back to Winterfell and disappearing into the clouds.

The firebender’s hand moved to cover the fossilized eggs tucked into his satchel, his eyes full of wonder.

“We’re so sorry we couldn’t uphold our oath,” Sokka continued. His voice was trembling now. “Our family has protected this grove for four hundred years, and…and now the moment I became regent Lord I ruined everything. I don’t want to see you destroyed, and I’m sure you don’t want that, either. Is…is there anything that we can do to save you? To save this place?”

_And why would I want your help?_ Sokka, Zuko, and Katara jolted at the chilling voice that ripped through the clearing like nails on a chalkboard, and it took Sokka a moment to realize it was the three-eyed raven that’d spoken, still bristling and glowering. _If it hadn’t been for this…illogical betrothal, this never would have happened._

“I’m sorry. We didn’t have a choice. Our fathers—”

_You keep apologizing, and yet over and over again you humans prove that you are capable of nothing but greed and violence. Perhaps I should’ve killed your ancestor Burlaq the moment he and Nymeria the Wolf Spirit came to me with a proposal to get through the Long Night together…but I was just a sapling then. I had yet to truly understand how cruel humankind could be._

“Please we—”

“So you don’t want our help?” Zuko demanded, ignoring Katara and Sokka shushing him frantically. The wolf guardians shifted around warily, eying the Weirwood tree as the temperature around them dropped several degrees. “Because we can leave, if you really want us to. We don’t have much time to exchange insults and beg for your mercy.”

_Such insolence from a boy I would’ve gladly killed had a dear friend of mine not vouched for him._

Another screech, this time echoing from somewhere inside the grove, and Sokka recognized it all too well; the screech of Silver Dancer’s last moments.

_I have seen the rise and fall of your dynasty, ash-maker. It was within my grove that the great dragon Viserion fell to Arrona Stark’s blade of ice. She launched it right through his neck, and I watched on in overjoyed amusement as the creature toppled out of the sky, right into this very clearing before bleeding out into the snow, choking and spluttering and wailing in agony before it finally succumbed._

Zuko’s lips pursed into a bitter line, and he looked away.

_Dragons are not inherently evil creatures. It is your family that is evil, the Targaryen blood that corrupts and destroys everything it touches. At that point, once the Three-Eyed Raven had come to the Starks’ aid, I allowed the survivors to drag the carcass back to their crypts. I could show you all this, of course, but as you said, we haven’t the time for such things._

Sokka’s brow furrowed as something tugged at the edges of his mind. The Avatar was called the Three-Eyed Raven, and here they were, talking with a bird that bore that exact description. Was it some sort of coincidence?

Aloud, he said, “We’re headed North. We’re hoping to catch up with our fathers’ army and break the news of the attack, and then head to House Baratheon to form an alliance. As much as I’d like to stay and defend this place to my dying breath, I cannot allow my father to keep fighting beside a man who took over his kingdom and tried to kill his children. Besides, one brush with death today has been…quite enough.”

“So, will you accept our help?” Katara asked. “I mean, if there’s anything that we can do? Perhaps a message to the other Weirwood groves scattered around the realm? I know the one in the North Pole was destroyed, but—”

_I have no messages,_ the three-eyed raven said, and Sokka’s breath hitched as it bowed its head in something that looked awfully akin to defeat. After a long moment, it croaked, _But I do wish for your help with something else…and I suppose I don’t have any other options._

“Anything you need,” Sokka said. “Anything at all.”

_My dear friend, I am sorry that I could not have done more for you._ The three-eyed raven’s tone was woven through with sorrow and regret. _I have not forged a bond with a human in many lifetimes, and I suppose this one was made all the sweeter because of it. I often spent time pondering when you would hobble into my grove, old and gray, and declare that you were not strong enough to return another time…and yet against all odds it seems as though you may outlive me after all._

“It shouldn’t be like this,” Sokka stated. “The Weirwoods of the North and the South were supposed to live on for eternity. The Targaryens cannot be responsible for the death of both.”

 _And yet they shall be._ Another ugly look leveled at Zuko, who dipped his head apologetically. _That is…unless you can do one last thing for me. I…apologize for leveling this burden on you. On all of you._

“Wait, what exactly do you need us to—"

But the raven had already hopped off the branch, flying over to the Weirwood’s carved face, and Sokka’s lips parted in shock as the raven plunged its beak into one of the Weirwood’s eyes and pulled out something small and red, barely bigger than a thimble and pulsing with a golden glow, almost as if it were alive.

_My…dear friend…your…hand…_

Sokka reached out his hand without thinking, and his heart skipped as the raven flew over to alight on his wrist, placing the item into his outstretched palm. Upon closer inspection, Sokka realized it was a seed. A small, unassuming little seed.

_I’m………sorry…_

And then the raven crumbled to dust.

Sokka gasped, whirling around as all of the leaves of the Weirwood grove went white in a single instant, the red evaporating from them like blood from a corpse. The ever-falling tears of sap from the Weirwood’s face ran dry as its now-pale leaves began to wither away one by one just like the raven, crumbling into ashes that were blown away by the wind. The whisper of spirits, which had all but ceased beforehand, suddenly rose up in a deafening crescendo, and Sokka was acutely reminded of the terrified clamor of his subjects fleeing Winterfell as the Targaryens and Greyjoys slaughtered them.

“What’s going on?!” Katara cried, grabbing a hold of Sokka’s arm as everything around them began to deteriorate like a fever dream. “Why’s this happening?!”

The spectral wolves around them howled mournfully, clustering together in trembling piles as they, too, began to disappear—one by one fading to near-transparency before going up in a whiff of smoke. The lead wolf ran to Sokka, its glowing blue eyes wide with terror, but before it could reach him its shadowy body blew away in the wind with the echo of a whimper.

“The grove!” Zuko watched as the flickering form of Viserion circled overhead, glitching and letting out warbling screeches that faded in and out of focus before an icicle launched through his neck and the dragon was gone in an instant. “It’s—”

“Dying,” Sokka whispered as the trees began to sputter and crackle, the bark peeling off in white spirals as the branches splintered and snapped, disintegrating the moment they hit the ground. He looked down at the seed in palm. “The Weirwood…it ripped out its own life force. It…it wants us to re-plant it somewhere.”

“But what about the memories?!” Katara snapped as angry men clad in furs and sealskin ran through the clearing with spears raised and unfamiliar banners flying. One of them turned to his brethren, opening his mouth to say something in an ancient language, but then they were gone. “Is that seed going to be a copy of the Weirwood or…or will it be its kid…?”

“I don’t know. I…I don’t know. We just might’ve lost everything. All that history…”

The disembodied voices went silent. The memories faded. It…it had all happened so fast. A bountiful spirit world reduced to nothing in a single instant.

“Well, at least Yue and Jet are still here,” Zuko pointed out, trying to sound hopeful. He was crouched on the ground, stroking the dire wolves’ heads as they curled up into him, shaking. “You found them in this grove, right? You’re lucky they didn’t…”

Sokka’s throat closed up at the idea of losing his dog, and he grimaced as the trees—now devoid of branches and looking more like white pillars of ice than anything else—began to topple over. One by one. There was no dramatic crashing, no magical explosion or final uproar of memories. 

The Weirwood grove died not with a bang, but with a whimper, a final gasp of breath before leaving the haggard group standing in the middle of the empty tundra, the wind battering them relentlessly. Winterfell was barely visible in the distance through the whirlwind, but close enough that if the storm quieted, the sentries on the battlements would have no trouble spotting them.

The Weirwood tree was the only thing that remained, leafless and cold and looking very much like the withered, lifeless corpse that it now was.

“So that’s it, then,” Katara murmured, simply because neither Sokka nor Zuko could think of anything to say as they stared at the empty husk. “That’s the end?”

“It isn’t,” Sokka said firmly, gripping the seed tightly. “We’re going to find a place for this. Somewhere far away, where no Targaryen can touch it.”

“I’m so sorry, Sokka,” Zuko whispered. “If it hadn’t been for—”

“Hush. You don’t have to apologize. This was the only way.”

“The storm’s going to pass soon,” Katara warned before Zuko could argue. She was waterbending the snow around them so that it wasn’t as cold as it could’ve been, but the wind was still biting. “We’d best be getting on our way to the docks before the watchers on the wall spot us.”

Sokka wished that he could linger for a while longer, could take the incense and offerings still stored beneath the Weirwood’s roots and give it one final sendoff. What was with Sokka and being sentimental to objects that no longer carried life? To the echoes of things that once were? First his mother’s statue, now this…

The ground began to shake.

“Shit!” Zuko lost his balance almost immediately; unlike Sokka, who’d been reborn spry and bright-eyed, Zuko still held the weariness of their journey from Winterfell, and Yue and Jet were almost immediately at his side, snuffling at his face to make sure he was okay.

Zuko seemed perplexed that these dire wolves that’d borne an unparalleled loathing for him beforehand suddenly were so doting, and Sokka smirked even as the Weirwood began to crackle as if it were on fire. Zuko was officially a Stark, now.

Cracks appeared in the Weirwood’s surface, racing along the swirling bark and radiating out through what few branches still clung to it.

_There’s going to be nothing left,_ Sokka thought bitterly. _No one will ever know this grove was here in the first place._

With a mighty bellow like thunder, the Weirwood tree split straight down the middle, destroying the sorrowful face as it cracked in half and unfurled like a blossoming flower.

“We should go,” Sokka said, already turning away with tears glistening on his cheeks. “I can’t bear to see this.”

But before Sokka could even take two steps, Zuko grabbed him by the arm. “Sokka.”

“What? Zuko, please don’t make me—”

“Sokka,” Katara whispered. “Look.”

“Listen, guys, I don’t think—”

Zuko seized his shoulders and whirled him around, just in time for Sokka to watch a small body tumble out from the surprisingly hollow insides of the Weirwood tree and collapse into the snow.

“What the fuck—?”

The three of them rushed over as if their feet had carried them of their own accord, Yue and Jet on their heels as they clustered around a pale boy who couldn’t’ve been older than twelve. He was wearing odd clothes—far too thin and far too colorful to have been woven in the South Pole—and it didn’t look like anything Sokka had seen from the earthbenders or firebenders, either.

“Where did he come from?” Katara asked, kneeling down and scooping the boy into her arms. She placed her hand on his chest. “He has a heartbeat. He’s alive.”

“Alive?!” Sokka ran his hands through his hair, turning in a slow circle. “But how? He was _inside_ the Weirwood tree!”

Zuko’s mouth was hanging open, his lips moving wordlessly as if he had something very important to say but couldn’t get a hold of his vocal cords. His hands were trembling, and his eyes were wide with something that looked awfully akin to realization.

“Hello?” Katara called softly, shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Can you hear me? Are you oka—”

The boy’s eyes snapped open. They were glowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HE'S HERE!! THE BOY!! 
> 
> Would y'all be mad if I told you that 93K in the story has only JUST BEGUN? If I stick with my outline, we still have 30-ish chapters to go but probably less lmao. Game of Thrones (The first book) is 298,000 words, and we might be shaping up to SURPASS that 
> 
> **This chapter was really hard to write, and I would REALLY appreciate it if you left a comment and kudos, please! It'll get me motivated to write the next chapter! Theories, keysmashes, word vomit, fav quotes, and constructive criticism are welcome! They make my day!! :)**

**Author's Note:**

> Loving this AU? Check out my blog on Tumblr (avatarthelastbackbender) for tons of art and bonus content under #asoiafatla ! 
> 
> Warning: I did draw this art before I started writing this AU, so there are some spoilers!


End file.
